


Eight Across

by BarelyEducated



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Difficult Women Being Difficult, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Plot, Politics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarelyEducated/pseuds/BarelyEducated
Summary: Andy Sachs threw her phone into a fountain in Paris in 2006 and began working at The Mirror. The sacrifices made for her career have put strains in her personal life and she realises everyone does wants to be them - but not everyone can. When she is pulled back into the world of fashion and politics, her life is turned upside down. Must be time for that promotion.





	1. Galvanize

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this is very slow burn/slow build! The rating is preemptive. 
> 
> English is not my native language and I don't have any editors/beta readers, so if you spot clunky sentences or odd grammar, don't hesitate to point it out. This is writing practice, so feedback is important. If you have time, drop me a line.
> 
> I'm not American, so excuse the odd discrepancy with reality. Some of these events were inspired by real ones but I've changed names of most plot-characters because it's weird use real people in fictional stories. Any similarities these characters have with real life ones are accidental. And while there is a bit of political fiction, this is a story about the importance of respect, the weight of sacrifices and personal growth at its core (I hope it is).
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. They are creative property of 20th Century Fox and Lauren Weisberger. I have tried to remain faithful to the characters' personalities, but it's still my interpretation. Er, sorry about that.

When it came to work, organisation was key. Keeping up with impossible demands was almost second nature to Andy Sachs at this point, but like anything, it wasn't enough to be instinct. It wasn't a natural talent, but something picked up over the time. Then again, even natural talent needed effort put into it to grow. The point was, work demanded a strict adherence to rules and timetables to meet the short, cut-throat deadlines of the non-stop world of news. If you wanted to keep afloat, you had to be able to do so. She had learned many lessons, even before her time as a Junior Reporter, working the graveyard shift and being handed the Obituaries, before being thrown into Life Stories section, managing to narrowly avoid getting pulled into the Sports team, and after her piece on homeless youth inn New York got readership increase across the digital user base, she cemented her place in the staff before her probation period was over.

However, the most important lesson hadn't been at _The New York Mirror_. The most important one had been at a certain publication of the world of fashion at Elias-Clarke: there is no impossible task if you really try. That was a lesson she carried with her and it carried her through the gruelling six months of her probation period. Her prevailing and go-getter attitude got her the role as a resident reporter under the Editor-in-Chief, Greg Hill. His initial level-headed demeanour was a façade: the veteran journalist was tough and always pushing everyone, but nothing Andy couldn't take. To be honest, if he was any less demanding, she would have been put off.

Life moved on at New York's breakneck speed. While Nate and she agreed to give another go to their relationship, his move to Boston and her increasingly demanding career clashed. They parted ways amicably and it had been, if Andy was honest with herself, a relief. Nate had been an ass back when he thought his birthday was more important than her career on that Gala evening, but he wasn't a bad person. He was just human and that had been a less-than-stellar example how much of one he was. Still, she didn't want to hurt him, and so she had tried, but when he suggested, for the second time, they should break up, she had to control herself to not to sound like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She wasn't willing to throw away her career like it was a disposable cell phone flying into a Parisian fountain. They just didn't want the same things any more. They could still be friends, and that was good enough. He went on to pursue his chef's ambitions in Boston and she remained in New York.

Lily had apologised for chastising her during her time working for _Runway_ , back when she and Nate were still dating. Doug had never been one to judge her, but he also hated conflict, so he had kept quiet during the Great Debacle of 2006, as he used to call it.  It didn't make it any better, but they moved past it. Their friendship had gone past the point of holding on to grudges of stupid decisions. It was pointless to fight over something that was done in the past, she supposed.

2006 had been a weird year, weirder than the trend of hats it had produced. It went by, and the next years followed so fast by she could barely blink, but she found that she had a much better handle on her life. She dated on and off, but nothing serious. Then Lily landed her own gallery and Doug quit his job to work for Bill Thompson’s office. And then, just like that, she found herself in the newsroom of _The New York Mirror_ celebrating 2009, under piles of investigative material and a skeleton crew of the graveyard shift. While Greg Hill was on holiday, it was Kate Marsden that had the team under her wing and her wing was drenched in alcohol and cheap snacks right then.

The graveyard shift was something she wasn't doing much anymore, but after managing to get Christmas off to go to Ohio to be with her family, she felt like she had to – and maybe that had been Greg's plan all along. After the ugly break-up with Jason, her four-and-a-half months ex-boyfriend, she didn't really feel like going out to Central Park with a bunch of strangers to celebrate a new year. Getting drunk was fine, but the newsroom had become a safer place to avoid break-up moods than her studio or even Lily's gallery. She loved her friends, she really did, but going to the massive party Doug's partner had organised was not something she was in the mood for. She could do with getting drunk with a bunch of overworked, overstressed and over-cynical reporters, because it was easier than keeping up with people that would ask 'and how's the handsome photographer?'

Besides, regardless of how much Lily assured her she would keep Jason away from her like a pitbull, even after Doug had told her he wouldn't be there, she had the feeling that he would find a way. Christmas with the family had improved her mood but scrubbing off the remains of his clothes from her Lower East Side studio had put her back in a cranky disposition. She didn't want to be a damper to the party spirit.

“What's with the grouch?”

Andy blinked back to reality, staring up to Liam Clancy – tall with a crooked nose and a shaved head, the forty-something years old senior reporter always seemed to misplace his glasses and never remembered to button his shirt the right way. He was her usual go-to when she needed some odd insight on a story on another. The man knew everything that was to know about every gentrified neighbourhood across New York and she wasn't sure why, but never bothered to ask.

“Oh, you know. New year's blues,” she flashed her bright smile, and he seemed happy with himself for having pulled her out of it. He thrust another cup of bubbly in her direction and she knew better than to attempt to refuse – so she just took it and nodded her thanks.

“You're about ten years too young to get the nostalgia blues already,” he lifted his arms above his head and the liquid inside his dinky plastic cup nearly sloshed out. “Come on, the countdown is about to start!”

“Okay, okay, be right with you, Clancy,” she laughed, tilting her plastic cup with cheap champagne towards him in greeting.

It tasted exactly how you would expect and she made a face, pulling the cup back and squeezing it only slightly on the sides with her thumbs. It crinkled under little pressure due to its poor quality. She smiled to herself as a thought crossed her mind: shit champagne in plastic cups. She wondered if this was payback for one fateful night in Paris. Around this time, she was sure all the clackers were drinking expensive champagne out of glasses. Real ones.

In fact, she was pretty sure the idea of drinking the way they were in the newsroom hadn't crossed their minds a day after college, if it even had crossed them at all.

She shook her head and laughed to herself with her lips around the cup, chewing idly on the brim. That was stupid. While her friendship with Nigel and Emily hadn't dissipated, they had drifted off. It was only natural, they moved on, she moved on. It was why she had been surprised when a pop-up notification on her e-mail inbox that started out with a _“Dear Six–”_ because there was only one person who called her that. When she opened the e-mail from Nigel, she didn't know what to expect. In hindsight, she probably shouldn't have been surprised; Elias-Clarke was launching a new publication for menswear and he had been hand-picked to lead it as Editor-in-Chief. He was finally going to be able to go to Paris and _see_ Paris and _Galvanize_ was going to hit every news-stand across America in March 2009. ' _We should catch up! Hopefully away from clam chowder.’_

She hadn't replied. She didn't know how to. It was silly to think about that life nowadays, even if she sometimes did. She wasn't part of that world any more, she had been there only for a few, if crucial, moments. She didn't wear Chanel or Valentino, she wore ugly second-hand sweaters and comfortable Nike shoes (chasing a story in Prada pumps was absolutely out of the question), and she was pretty sure had been wearing the same jeans for the past three days. She was inclined to believe that would guarantee a purse of the lips.

And _that_ was another thought crossing her mind quite often as of late. She used to walk every day in front of the imposing, glass castle that the Elias-Clarke building was. Every once in a while, Andy would have spared a moment to look at it and couldn't help but to laugh to herself when a harried young-faced assistant click-clacked across the road into the building holding centre-of-the-sun hot coffee and about thirty brand name bags. It was rarely the same girl every other month. A glance or two and that was it. That was all she allowed herself. But after that e-mail, it was like she had to force herself not to think about it, to make sure she didn't look at it at all.  Like something was impeding her to look at it.

Well, no. Andy knew it wasn't a something. It was a someone.

Maybe part of it was fear, or shame. Maybe one day, when she was looking, she would see a silver Mercedes-Benz parked in front of the building. Maybe she would have to look at a certain snowy-haired editor in the eye after two years of the most mind-baffling recommendation letter in the world. And then she would do what, exactly? Shake her head and laugh it off, then walk away? It had sufficed the last time, after the chance encounter, but she didn’t think it would be like that again.

Maybe, on the other hand, it was because she could feel her stomach churn at the thought that she _would_ see the woman that had opened the door for her path. Sometimes, she thought about e-mailing her, to ask her why. Why would she recommend Andy when she was, and she would be quoting directly, _her_ _biggest disappointment_?

That woman was a mystery, and she didn't think anyone truly understood her. She thought sometimes she had. After that, she wasn't so sure. Having had no response on the last time their path met, a silent “thank you” and a wave before she got in the car, she admitted, if only to herself, that it had hurt a little. She knew she didn’t deserve any other acknowledgement on her part, but she had wanted it. She knew she didn’t deserve it, not after what she had done, the way she had resigned, a formal and impersonal letter sent over to HR. The only thing she had left behind for her had been a simple line in a small envelope. ‘ _Dissonance.’_

Andy knew she would know what she meant – it wasn’t kind of her, not really, and maybe in that moment she had cemented it. That they weren’t all that different. In the end, the real reason Andy had to be afraid of looking at the Elias-Clarke building with all this time, was that she felt guilty. Guilty for not seeing what she had supposed to see until it was too late. That she had held the door open for Andy but instead she had leapt out of the window like a coward. And yet, her career still stood. It could have been buried right there and then, six-feet-under summaries of the latest episode of _Desperate Housewives_ for _TV Guide_. Instead, she was currently aiming for the vacancy left by Alan Jordan in U.S. Politics – she knew the unofficial recruiter for that desk, Eddie Mendoza, had his eye on her.

Turning twenty-six had made her a little more aware of how childish she had been, complaining about a demanding job and having The Dragon as a boss. Whining about the job a million girls would kill for. Jeopardising a career out of fear of losing what made Andy “aw-shucks” Sachs tick when, in fact, what had happened was she had just beginning to find herself. What had once made her so uncomfortable, that everyone wanted to be them (she had not said her, she had said _us_ ), now made her believe she could reach for the stars. With a better perspective of the world, Andy now knew that it had been the choices she had made during that time that had taught her the lessons she needed to persevere. If she hadn't gone through that, through _her_ , she didn't think she could have handled the pace of her job. In fact, after the Harry Potter incident, her confidence had been fortified and had carried her through apparent dead-ends. She could always find a work around impossible jobs (which was why Eddie had his eye on her).

When she looked down at her plastic cup again, it was empty. That was a lot of self-reflection done over the past two weeks. She really should come back to reality rather than being reminiscing about the past. Indeed, she should be looking to the future on the brink of the New Year, she should be taking steps into it and what could be better than cement a brand-new decision? She looked at her watch and realising she had about two minutes to get it done, she made her choice.

Sliding over to her desk, the wheels of her chair rolling slightly, she opened her e-mail and typed a quick reply, an apology for the lateness, and her new number. She didn’t read it once over so she had no time to think it through, took a deep breath and hit _‘Send'_. That should clear her head of crazy thoughts of guilt and self-reflection and make space for her to focus on the present. And the present involved a lot more drinks.

Grabbing Joel Watkins, the junior reporter for Sports who had chained himself to his desk in the hope a scoop would miraculously pop up at midnight, she dragged him off to the team huddled around another cheap bottle of champagne and joined in on the count down.

“–Two... One! Happy new year!” They shouted in unison as the corked popped loudly, hitting the ceiling, and sparkly alcohol dropped from the bottle. There was laughter, and much more booze to follow.

  

  

* * *

  

 

The throb in her head was divine intervention. It had to be. Divine intervention that she should vow to never again drink cheap champagne out of plastic cups followed by tequila shots. She must have thought she was sixteen on Spring Break again.

Groaning, Andy tried to untangle herself from the pile of blankets she was currently trapped by, managing to lose a sock and oozing down to the floor with the blankets with a stronghold on her body. She held a hand to her head and groaned again, feeling like her brain was bruised. She could barely open her eyes and the only reason she was up was because her cell phone was somewhere on the floor buzzing incessantly, which she was attempting to find by crawling around with a blind hand tapping and following the feeling of vibration.

It was 10AM on the 1st of January. Just because it was a Thursday, nobody should expect her to be up after all that drinking and after a graveyard shift, so whoever was calling ought to have a very good reason. She didn't even look at the caller ID as she picked it up and put it, begrudgingly, to her ear.

“Sachs,” she croaked.

“ _Sachs? Sachs, what, Sachs Senior? Because whoever you are, you should see a doctor. You sound like a chain-smoker in his death bed!”_

Confused, Andy squinted her eyes and curled her nose, pulling her Sony Ericsson around to stare at the screen. She didn't recognise the number, and her headache didn’t want her thinking, so she just decided to flat out ask, “Who's this?”

_“Your Fairy Godmother. Happy new year, Six!”_

That alone made her scramble and run, suddenly a lot more awake (but with a headache no less intense) and she held on to her bed as she tried to pull herself up.

“Nigel?! Nigel! Oh my God, how are you!?”

There was a chuckle on the other side, “ _Apparently better than you. Rough night?_ ”

“Something like that,” she said, voice laded with amusement and a hangover. She finally got the sheet peeled out of her leg, trying not to trip on the pile of discarded clothes. Her work ethic was flawless, but her private life was a mess. All of her organisational skills were for professional use only, not at home – she found comfort in her messy ways. If someone saw the state of her studio, they would have thought someone had broken in. Walking to the small bathroom that barely fit her standing shower, Andy rummaged the cabinet over the sink for some much-needed Advil as she spoke. “Happy new year to you too. Congratulations again! I'm so happy for you!”

“ _I know!_ ” He sounded so excited that Andy couldn't help but to smile. “ _It's so amazing! Living on hope sometimes does get you somewhere. I_ knew _she would pay me back.”_

Hearing someone else other than the tiny voice inside her head speak about _her_ made Andy's stomach drop suddenly. Or maybe it was the tequila reminding her of her actual age and that hard liquor on a Wednesday was a long-forgotten technique. With the pills in her hand, she closed the small cabinet and stared back at her own reflection on the speckled mirror. She looked like a mess, an old Northwestern University hoodie, hair looking like she had shoved her fingers in a socket, and dark circles under her blood-shot eyes. She was staring wide-eyed like she didn't know what to say. _She_. It wasn't even her name. Her stomach lurched again.

“ _Hello? Six?”_

“Yeah? Yeah! Yeah, I'm here, sorry, hold on” she said quickly, popping the Advil in her mouth and turning on the tap. She drank directly from it and gulped down the pills, before returning to the call. “So, uhm– what do you mean, pay you back?”

“ _Well, Miranda endorsed me for the position. Irv Ravitz is on thin ice and crossed with her, because the Board trusts her opinion and gave the go ahead. There was a crazy increase on sales last year, so it was barely any contest. Can you believe it?_ ” It was impossible not to hear the high-pitched joy in the man's voice. She could picture him walking back and forth excitedly. “ _Anyway, when_ are _you free, miss reporter?”_

 _“_ Uh–” she started eloquently, traversing to the open kitchen to get some coffee going. She rummaged the pantry to find the Trader Joe’s brand coffee, using a plastic spoon to fill the French press. “I've got Saturday off this week?”

“ _Perfect! Do you know the Ear Inn? Can you get there at 6PM?”_

“Yeah, sounds great.”

 _“A-mazing! See you there!”_ And before he hung up, _“Bring something nice!”_

Andy pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it in daze. Just like that, 2009 was off to a very odd start. Blinking as the headache's throbbing intrusion began to smooth out under the effects of the Advil and the prospect of brown caffeinated liquid, she looked at the coffee swirling in her French press and laughed nervously to herself.

She had no idea why she was nervous, but there was a flash of perfect coiffed hair and a pair of Prada sunglasses that didn't feel much different to the idea of swimming with a shark. She rubbed her face and leaned her elbows on the marble counter, rubbing her eyes as she realised how not awake she was.

This was definitely a year of change.

 

* * *

 

 “What do you mean, she's early?”

“Stop being so shrill and get moving! You,” Emily snapped her fingers impatiently at the new girl who looked like she was about to throw up all over her Chanel shirt and blazer combo. “Get Starbucks! _Now_ , not tomorrow! Go!”

The blonde jumped up to her stacked-heel ankle boots and rushed ran out the glass doors like an axe-murderer was chasing her. To be fair, she would probably walk with less urgency if one _was_ chasing her down a creepy alley. It would be a more merciful fate than the one the She-Dragon could bestow upon her, should her no foam latte miss its appointment with her desk.

Emily turned around to the first assistant, who was already manning her station like a soldier ready for war. Carmen was the antithesis of the Latina stereotype, quiet, calm and collected, and she was the best replacement she had found during the flurry that had been 2006 after a certain someone had unceremoniously quit. Emily shuddered as she recalled the months following Andy's dramatic resignation. She knew hell was not fire and brine, but ice and fog, because she had lived through it and survived. She was sure Miranda had set a record time of firing second assistants not only within the Elias-Clarke building, but in the whole of America. Eventually, she had managed to stick the landing with Carmen, but it had been gruelling. After that, she climbed up the ladder and was promoted to Creative Executive as Nigel’s protégée and now with his promotion to _Galvanize_ she was being offered his seat in a surprising short time. Being Miranda’s first assistant worked miracles. All she needed to do was to present her March edition layout and get her approval. If she proved herself worth it, the spot would be hers. Which meant that the last thing she needed was to have a tough time with the woman that held her future in the palm of her hand because _someone_ wasn’t ready. She wasn’t going to jeopardise her fresh start like that.

With the first trench of damage under control, she clip-clopped at Mach-5 speed to the Art Department, making a face at Serena as she directed her people in Beauty. The tall Brazilian caught a glimpse of her and waved, but Emily didn't spare more than a terrified smile before sipping down the rest of the hallway.

Nobody was expecting Miranda to come to the office on Thursday – she was supposed to be in California with the twins – but the woman was far from being predictable. With Nigel gone, there was an even smaller number of people that could potentially make La Priestly less devastating. While she was yet to become one of them, her time as her first assistant had taught her a lot of things. One of them was that work, excellent work, was always a safe way to placate the woman. And as such, she rushed to her department to get the new layouts.

The halls of _Runway_ were a hazard in the event of a surprise Miranda visit, with people rushing everywhere, sneakers traded by Louboutins and any idiot that decided to bring food was scraping it down the bins. Traces of idle hands thrown out the window. Emily was used to it, so she dodged incoming frazzled employees in the narrow ways with the accuracy of an Olympian champion. It was like a doomsday scenario, but then again, any day had the potential to become one on that particular floor of the Elias-Clarke building.

As she returned to Miranda's office, the fashion empress was already sitting down, drinking her latte and browsing through the daily papers. Diana, the second assistant, was paler than before, trying to hide the sweat and trembling hands as she clacked away at her Mac keyboard with murderous focus on the screen. The phone on Carmen's desk rang and she picked up almost instantly, “Miranda Priestly's office. No, she's unavailable at the time. Can I take a message?”

With the phone tucked against her ear and shoulder, Carmen looked up to Emily and waved her in with a nod towards the door, and she walked in as Miranda picked up the Starbucks' coffee. Sometimes, she wondered if the reason why she needed it so hot was because she was really made of ice. She didn't spare a glance to her as Emily rounded the table and without wasting time on pleasantries (Miranda would have had her head), she gently laid out the layouts by the copy of _The New York Mirror._ That had been a new habit that Emily hadn't missed – nor Nigel, for that matter – but one she would not dare to comment on, mostly because she didn't have a death wish. While an array of newspapers always found their way to her desk, it didn't take long to realise that she should always put _The Mirror_ on top of the pile. She had noticed after a while she always did the crosswords on it. Emily had the sneaking suspicion that, as time went by, there was a section of the newspaper the woman would always read first and the crosswords were just a distraction, like a statement that told that the newspaper was only good enough for mild entertainment in between calls. In fact, if it wasn't so blatant, she might even have bookmarked in the morning the page she was sure was the first to be read.

Honestly, the Briton didn't get it. And she didn't want to understand either. Some things were better left unsaid, as far as she was concerned, and Miranda's curiosity over the work of a small-town girl from Ohio was one of those. That, along with what's going on in the mind of serial killers, were some of the things Emily Charlton didn't want to know.

Now that she wasn't an assistant anymore, she had the blessing of not having to know either. Of course, her post came with added responsibilities, but those she could take like the neurotic perfectionist she was. She smiled a little behind the layouts to hide it, recalling numerous occasions Nigel had to tell her to calm down when she first began to work in the Art Department. Then, as time went by and she found her footing, she became more confident and worth the quick promotion. It wasn't a lie that serving as Miranda assistant would land you your dream job, some sooner, some later.

The fact was, only _one_ little person had escaped the _TV Guide_ fate.

She needed to stop thinking about _that._ Right now. She would have more than enough time for such things on Saturday. Really, what was that Nigel thinking, inviting the silly cow for some banter and drinks? She was beginning to think that once you landed as Editor-in-Chief, your mind started to deteriorate.

“These are the layouts for the March edition,” she said to snap out of horrible thoughts, turning the files over to Miranda. The woman closed the paper and looked over the work in her reading glasses. “The new samples from Holt arrived early for once, and Herrera is pulling out of _Allure_ to give us an exclusive on the new designs.”

It was imperceptible to the untrained eye, but the good news seemed to sooth the woman enough for her to not to purse her lips. She nodded at the layout presented and Emily's knees nearly buckled. It was nothing short than a victory to have her designs approved.

“Acceptable,” was the word and it took everything the Briton had to not to both sigh in relief and yell in excitement. Nigel would be proud. “How are we with the issue with Cavalli's delayed samples?”

Oh, why did it have to be _that_ question?

“We're still waiting to hear back from him, so we're pressing his assistant to give us more details. He has been very tight-lipped about it,” she winced, not wanting to say the next words, but it would rather be better if she knew now than later. “We think he wants to give it to _W_ instead.”

Yes, there it was. The narrowing of the eyes behind spectacles. She made sure to stand her ground when Miranda pulled the glasses off her face and tapped the red-rimmed arm against her chin. She made a soft sound and turned the page on the layout.

“No, that won’t do,” she pointed to the second draft. “Re-work this one. I expect nothing short of Nigel's excellence, Emily. Carmen,” she called out so gently it would take someone to strain to hear it. There was a beat and Emily looked up, saw Carmen glare across her desk, and Diana came rushing in near-panic. She looked like a rabbit leaping into the wolf's den. “Are we re-enacting the pacing _Barry Lydon_ today, Carmen?”

“N-N–”

Miranda didn’t give her a chance to get in a single word, even though she did not speak fast, she wasn’t making anyone’s job any easier.

“Cancel my 10AM, send Hayden to check on them instead and they should inform me immediately. I need eight– no, twelve Ellie Saab jackets. And get Serena in Beauty to go through the new Estée Lauder batch that came in yesterday. Tell her to be here at 11AM and I want to see the Burt’s Bees review too. Call Lacroix team, say I don't want the ones they sent me, I want the ones I was _told_ I was going to get. I don't want to hear anything else from them until then. I want to see the new colour palette from Valli, and tell Emery to talk to Roberto. I don’t want any excuses and I want an answer by the end of today. Book the girls dentist appointment for tomorrow at 4PM. Make sure they have the piano lessons rescheduled to Friday. Find me a new gardener for the next two weeks. Don't bother Antonio, he is on leave in Argentina. Call Nigel, I need him here in ten minutes _ago_ to go over the finishing touches of his handover. And get me Demarchelier.”

When she was finished, Miranda glanced the second assistant head to toe to take in the fashionable attire, before turning on the spot and walking back to the desk.

“That's all.”

Diana cringed as her wrist cramped as she scribbled furiously on her leather notebook and didn't say anything else as she scampered off to go do as told.

Emily had to admit, while it was thrilling to watch Miranda work, she much preferred to do it from her new position. When she realised the older woman was back to the newspaper and flipping it over to the crosswords section, the red-head grabbed her layouts and nodded.

“I'll have them done by the afternoon, Miranda.”

“See that you do,” the woman said calmly without looking at her. The pen scratched the word out in the eight across squares while she waited for the phone call to come through.

Emily walked out the door, arching an eyebrow as she saw Diana breathing into a paper bag half hidden under the desk and turned to Carmen, who remained calm and collected and shook her head with half-disgust at the second, rolling her eyes. She pushed the hold button on the phone and turned her head towards the office.

“I have Patrick!”

Some things never changed.


	2. Pandora's Box

On Friday, Andy was back on her regular schedule after recovering from her monster hangover. She had a quick lunch with Lily and Doug on Thursday, but had not told them about the e-mail from Nigel nor the fact she was meeting him and Emily on Saturday. Pretending this was normal was a lie that she struggled to buy into, so she couldn't even broach the subject without showing her hand. Until she knew where she stood with them, Andy would not say a word about this weird flash from the past. Even though they had apologised and everything was said and done, her time at the _Runway_ was still a part of her life that they avoided, for some reason or another. As such, she conveniently buried the upcoming meet-and-drink with her ex-colleagues from Runway under work until the morning of the day in question, when her brain decided to remind her that she was supposed to wear something _nice_ – and something nice for the former Creative Director of the biggest fashion magazine didn’t mean that one skirt from Zara that was fresh out of the laundry. It meant _fashion nice_.

The Closet wasn’t available to her disposal anymore and her nicer clothes were much more business formal than fashion nice, so it had been an ordeal to find something to wear that could live up to standards.

To her surprise, something had survived her eradication of _Runway_ from her life when Nate and she were doing attempt number two.

At the back of the wall-encrusted closet of her bedroom she found a big cardboard box with ‘ _Runway’_ written on it with a sharpie. It was one of the few things that she had kept from her days at the hands of the most demanding Editor-in-Chief in the Elias-Clarke building.

Andy pried it open like it would explode on her face if she wasn’t that careful. There was a reason why she had hidden it. During the poor attempt to recover their relationship, the memories those clothes elicited were too tender for the both of them – more for Nate than herself, but they compromised. When he moved to Boston as the new sous-chef of The Oak Room, the box and, subsequently, the clothes, were left forgotten as her workload increased at _The Mirror_. There had never been any reason to wear them for work, where everyone favoured comfort over fashion, and it had stayed out of sight and out of mind, gathering a soft layer of dust.

If she felt poetic, she would say that box was Pandora’s. Opening it would surely make memories of repressed sentiments resurface and she was doing a great job of not indulging on those lately, fighting them off with logic – or so she thought.

Using a kitchen knife to cut through the tape holding it closed, Andy sat on to floor to rummage through the box with a mix of wonder and fear. The Chanel boots weren’t there, but there were other pieces that could still be considered _haute couture_ , even if not really this year (at least it was still the appropriate decade, they weren’t old enough to be considered vintage yet). While many of her clothes she had worn when she worked at _Runway_ had been borrowed from The Closet, she had bought a handful of nice items during her time there, making full use of her employee discount and inside sources. She was happy to discover a modest midnight blue Laroche and a pair of red studded Rodarte boots. Lessons of matching her clothes came back easily and she realised that this attire meant she had to wear the less comfortable and less warm long black coat instead of the puffy winter jacket that currently hung from the back of her high chair in the kitchen.

On her way out, after applying her make-up, she remembered to grab the red Prada _pochette_ she had seen tucked behind The Box.

The Ear Inn was a hip bar in SoHo and there was always a line of people outside. It was loud and fancy and very much _in_ , which was why Andy never thought to go there. She always preferred the rowdy pubs or small corner restaurants where the food was cheap but family-sized and every plate was a decisive step towards a heart attack. In here, it was more like a step closer to liver disease.

Stepping through a crowd of attractive people ready for a Saturday night out, Andy spotted the familiar bald and red-headed cleverly dressed duo near a table and she waved at them, pushing her way towards them. Nigel was the first to get up, excited as he spread his arms and wrapped them around her frame in a warm and welcoming hug. Andy smiled dumbly and hugged back, not feeling as awkward as she thought she would.

The phone call on Thursday had sent her into a spiral of self-doubt, of thinking this had been a mistake, and every time her mind wandered to Saturday she got nervous nausea. She shouldn’t be able to walk back in just like that, she knew her exit had been less than graceful, and over and over, that guilt weighted and sat in her stomach uncomfortably. But as Nigel gripped her arms and turned her around, quipping something about a 'nice round form' she realised it had been silly of her to worry about it during the time she had to think about life, when she wasn't busy writing articles and digging around in the archives.

She was about two years too late to regret it. She had to live with her choices and that had been something she had learned long ago.

Besides, it seemed that re-opening this chapter wasn’t a complete waste of time – it was genuinely good to see them again. Nigel hadn’t aged a day since she had last seen him about a year ago at a fancy cocktail party, and Emily didn’t look much different with her more grudge, underground fashion sense, rocking the new Westwood collection. The only difference she could spot was that her hair was much longer a slightly darker shade of red.

It was true Andy wasn't a part of the fashion industry any more, but she wasn't part of the art world either and yet Lily and she had remained friends. It had been childish of her to think the friendship she had developed during her short tenure at the _Runway_ would just disappear, especially after gracefully donating about $38,000 worth of clothes to Emily.

As she turned to the Briton to maybe get a polite nod of the head, the red-head made a face and appraised her outfit like she was dissecting a frog on a surgeon's table. Andy felt naked for a second, before Emily scoffed.

“I _suppose_ you could do worse,” finally cracking a smile, she brought her in for a quick one-armed hug. Andy sighed in relief at that and laughed, giving her a good old Andy “Aw-Shucks” Sachs warm embrace. Emily seemed to fluster at that, like she had forgotten how Midwestern the woman was.

“It's good to see you too, Emily!”

“Oh, hush.”

It was remarkably easy to roll in to the conversation, especially with the wine that kept on coming. Andy had told herself she was only going to have a couple of glasses, her salary was nowhere near enough to cover the sky-high prices of trendy places, but it ended up being a futile attempt as Nigel demanded to do away with any resemblances of Dry January and promised to pick up the tab. So two glasses turned into three, and after the fourth, nobody was counting.

“Wow, Emily, Creative Director! That's amazing!”

“Yes, well, Nigel knows best,” the woman sniffed with a smile and glanced over to Nigel, who waved her off with a faux limp wrist of dismissal. “I'm quite happy, I won't lie. Miranda just approved my March layout this week, so I'm going a bit mental!”

Andy felt her insides twist and turn at the name but made sure her smile remained plastered on her face. She was starting to wonder if she had PTSD or Stockholm syndrome. Possibly both. The growing feeling of guilt might be influencing those thoughts, which annoyed her. It was silly, it had happened two years ago. _Move on, Andy._

She sipped her drink and frowned, staring at a point behind Emily's head as she talked about the new ideas the department was working on. Andy had debated recently that the reason she didn't want to see _her_ was because she didn't want to say thank you and because she didn't want to apologise. Trying to convince herself to let go of any guilty feelings wasn’t easy, but logic dictated that she must. Her life was her own and she didn't need to thank anyone. Why should she say sorry? For throwing the company phone in the fountain? Like that wasn’t just a blip in their radar.

Good lessons or not, her time in _Runway_ had also been an experience she didn't care to repeat, she told herself, not sure if there was any truth to that thought.

“I believe I left it in good hands,” said Nigel with a soft chuckle, bringing her back to the conversation as he drew small circles with his glass in his hand. “But if not, that's an easy fix. She can just get fired and find a job at the closest second-hand shop. I heard baggy pants are abundant in those.”

Emily gave a horrified, strangled gag and Andy laughed heartily at the face of horror the woman pulled.

“I thought you'd take me in if I get thrown into exile!”

“Oh, no, no, if you poke the dragon, I am _not_ going to rescue you from your tower. You're on your own, Princess.”

“Rude!”

“Very,” Nigel winked at her and pointed at Andy with his finger, still holding his glass. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Aren't you rearing up for a jump as well? A little bird told me you might soar to the Politics desk.”

“A little bird?” Andy guffawed incredulously. “What’s going on? Who told you that?”

“I have my sources,” he grinned as he sipped his wine. He looked positively mischievous.

“Your so– Your _sources_?” Andy gawked and laughed, shaking her head. “I thought you worked in fashion. Are you sure you didn't miss your calling in investigative work?”

He tutted, “Come on, Six, don't be rude, you were in our world—“

“For five seconds,” Emily quipped between a sip of wine.

“—you know we can get what we want. So, dish. What's this about taking Alan Jordan’s place?”

“Yeah, well, you know—” Andy shrugged and made the glass spin slowly, holding it by the stem between her finger and thumb. “New York is full of people with interesting life stories worth telling, but I think I would do better if my focus was on Politics. I'm aiming higher, for the big dogs. I'm hoping to land it after Obama’s swearing in.”

“Oh, that soon?”

“It depends, I’ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeve, and if all goes well, maybe I can get my hands on some coverage and if the work is good, then maybe. Obama is a big change and it's going to be an interesting year for America. I've got my instincts tingling.”

“Is that the only thing tingling?”

Andy nearly spat out her drink. She had forgotten how blunt the man could be, how unfiltered he was around most people.

“What?!”

“Appalling, Nigel.”

“Oh, come on, you knew we would get here! I want to know how the love life of the only Six I know is.”

Resigned under the intensity of Nigel’s stare and the thinly veiled curiosity of Emily’s, Andy ended up sighing in defeat and shook her head with a little smile.

 “There's nothing to tell,” she said with a shrug, downing the rest of the wine. She didn't stop Nigel from topping her off again. “Work makes it hard to hold on to a relationship and I'm not interested in getting into another fight how I spend more time writing than I do at home.”

“Ouch,” Nigel said with a hint of genuine sympathy.

Knowing the demands of the industry, Andy had no doubt that this was a scenario both him and Emily knew all too well. It was nice, if a little sad, to not to have to explain herself to them, as to why her career was more important than a ‘maybe’ in her life, that if she was going to have to choose, it would be the newspaper. She had to do so multiple times during her visit to her parents, and only Jill’s demands to have their mother ease up on the Spanish Inquisition would quell her. Considering Jill had a kid with another one on the way, Andy could consider herself lucky that she wasn’t the one being pressured to get her grandchildren.

It wasn’t even that she was unwilling to try relationships, but it was hard to find a partner that understood her perspective. She was willing to bet that Emily and Nigel had gone through that situation numerous times.

No wonder the fashion industry was known for its feeble flings and short-term relations.

“So, you and the chef are not an item anymore?”

“Oh, no, that ended ages ago. He moved to Boston after I got the job at _The Mirror_. We tried the long-distance thing for a while, but it just didn't work out.” The shrug she gave was a clear indicator that it didn’t bother her, and she expanded on it. “In the end, we work better as friends than we did as a couple.”

“Nothing in between that?”

Andy pulled a face and immediately regretted it when Nigel leaned in curiously and even Emily was looking at her intensely over the glass of wine she was nursing. She rolled her eyes again and shrugged, crossing her arms over the table.

“Here and there, but you know how it goes. Still, nothing was worse than my last break-up. Friend of a friend, we met at a party and hit it off pretty well, but it was always intense. It makes sense it ended in the same wavelength, I guess.”

Thinking about Jason was not something Andy had meant to do that evening, so she couldn’t help the slight slump of her shoulders. She remembered that day all too well. There had been a lot of shouting and a lot of words meant to cut deep, accusations that shouldn’t be said as carelessly as they had and with a door slamming shut, it had ended. The thought that had hurt her most was not one that had woven by Jason, but rather the realisation that she was relieved it had ended so badly. She didn’t feel the same way about him he did about her and the chances of ever speaking again were very low. It was a terrible, selfish thing, one she kept to herself, but nonetheless a sincere one.

“I think I’m going to steer clear of relationship for the next decade,” she sighed dramatically with a laugh to make light of the situation.

“On the bright side, you might just be up for that promotion,” quipped Nigel with a hopeful, warm smile. He stood by the words that he had once told her that if everything in their personal lives was going up in flames, then work life was probably on the rise.

“Yes, well,” Emily leaned over the table to take the bottle, pouring herself a generous portion of the wine before returning it to Nigel. “We all make our choices to get to the top.”

The tone didn’t carry any accusation, but her mind interpreted it unfavourably. It called back to the last conversation in the back of a Mercedes-Benz.

_Everyone wants to be us._

Maybe she was right, but wanting to be them and being able to become were two very different things. Not everyone could. That was something Andy realised quickly after starting out at _The Mirror._ She shook her head and leaned her chin on her hand, ready to change topics, but Emily wasn't finished.

“Good God, woman, the hell you put us through! It took six months for things to calm down to manageable levels. What did you even say to Miranda to warrant that— you know what?” She held her hands up. “I don't want to know.”

Andy grimaced and mumbled out a sheepish apology, trying to wrap her head around that piece of information at the same time she was trying even harder to not even think about it. For Emily to say that Miranda had been raising hell, it couldn’t have been less than. The former first assistant knew the woman was difficult, but she also respected and idolised Miranda to the point of thinking her demands weren’t insane.

In retrospect, she could see how her admittedly dramatic resignation letter of a lowly assistant could have sent the woman that wasn’t told “No” into a foul mood.

“You know that she reads _The Mirror_ every morning now?”

“What?” she squeaked for the second time that evening, staring at Nigel like he was insane. “I mean, it’s— it’s a good newspaper, and she reads th—“

“Oh, can it, you silly cow,” Emily snorted, shaking her head at the flustered reporter, who abruptly shut up and busied her mouth with more wine. “She reads it because, as far as I know, she gave you some sort of reference. She put her reputation on the line for you, so you can believe that she’s judging your work.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear at all. Andy frowned into the glass and Nigel tilted his head, watching her with a knowing smile. He leaned in and watched her over his round spectacles.

“Did you think she would forget the assistant that fled Paris?”

“God, this is not how I thought the evening would go,” she laughed nervously, mussing up her bangs in her usual nervous habit. “We are supposed to be celebrating you, not reminiscing potential career-threatening decisions.”

“I still don’t know how you survived that,” Emily continued, ignoring her silent plea to move away from the topic. She remembered then that this was one of the reasons why she was so nervous about meeting them in the first place. “You should get urban myth status at this point, if your name hadn’t been banned from the _Runway_ offices.”

Andy winced at that. What else was she supposed to expect, a standing ovation? Of course the Ice Queen would wipe any semblance of her existence. The knowledge that she read _The Mirror_ offered her no comfort. If anything, she had a small voice in the back of her head nagging her that she was going to be a lot more meticulous going forward.

“Ha ha,” she said humourlessly, rolling her eyes and landing on Nigel. “Come on, stop putting me on the spot here. This is about you!” She reached out and squeezed her fingers around his arm gently, beaming her bright smile. “ _Galvanize_ , I like it! It’s very you.”

“It has been in the works for a while now, a lot of marketing research and other resources have been put into it. It’s the biggest project I have ever tackled, but it just feels so right to be the man at the helm for a change. We have been working non-stop since I’ve been nominated as Editor-in-Chief. There’s a new opening in market with _Men’s Vogue_ fizzling out, but we have to make sure we get to them before _GQ_ and _Esquire_ get there. We’re doing a fresher, bolder approach – we want men’s fashion to be exciting. We have got big names for the first issue, you know, we want to start out with the loudest bang possible. We’ve got some rising bloggers working for us and we stole two junior writers from _Men’s Health_. Steven Klein, too, snatched him right from under Jim Nelson’s nose.”

The glee of the man was evident in his eyes and he wasn’t ashamed of it. The fashion publishing industry was unforgiving and there was no space for hesitation: if you wanted something, you had to take it and that seemed to be what he was doing.

“And we got Lindsay Adler to work for us and LaChapelle signed a deal with us to be our Head of Photography for the first three months.”

“Wow, that’s a handful of big names.”

“Yes, well, we want this to be a success, there’s no forgiveness if it goes wrong,” he nodded more to himself than anything, looking like a man ready to face the world no matter what. It reminded Andy that he, like so many others, lived on hope and hard-work. “This might be what Elias-Clarke needs to push Irv out. He was adamantly against it after _Vogue’s_ hiccup, but if we do well, Irv will struggle keep relevant.”

“It’s going to be hard to drive him out, but I suppose if anyone can do it, it’s going to be Miranda.” Emily added helpfully, judging Andy’s slightly lost look to be one of confusion.

It wasn’t. It simply dawned on her that Miranda always played the long game. She moved in the murky waters of the fashion industry with predatory intent. She was the type of woman who wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way, and apparently, Irv Ravitz had tried one too many times. The vengeance would be served with a side of ice and cut-throat precision. She felt an odd excitement creeping in the back of her ribcage.

“You know her. She will find a way.”

“Oh, yeah,” Andy forced another smile and a little laugh, hoping her thoughts weren’t visible or the sudden turning of her stomach was perceptible. “I remember.”

Nigel laughed and then hummed pensively, touching the glass to his lips. He stared at her for a while, set the glass down and removed his glasses, taking the salmon-pink handkerchief out of the pocket of his Armani blazer to wipe his glasses.

“You know what, maybe it’s the wine talking, but I am going to formally invite you for the launch party. Stop staring, it’s so unbecoming. I know you love me—” Andy laughed, shaking her head as he put his glasses back on to free his hands, refilling her glass even before she had finished what she had left. “—so I want you there. It’s been good to reconnect. I’ll send the tickets over to _The Mirror_ , you can bring a plus one. There’s even going to be some politicians, so don’t say I’ve never done anything for you. You know, other than teaching you how to apply foundation and a sense of style.”

“To Nigel!” Emily said, raising her glass.

“Cheers!”

The wine kept on coming and the three of them caught up. By the end of the night, Andy was well informed that _Runway_ was still a tightly ran ship with a Devil in Prada commandeering it. With her new position, Emily had become a lot less neurotic but still prone to her short-bursts of anxiety when things didn’t go her way. Nigel assured Andy when the red-head went to touch up her lipstick, that she was doing a great job – but he couldn’t quite tell that in front of her. Managing expectations and egos, all that jazz.

“In fact, I almost wanted to bring her with me to Galvanize, but it’s too early in her career to take that risk. Knowing her, she would have said yes in a heartbeat. She’s good. Very good. I don’t want to take that away yet.”

On his part, Nigel was over the moon with this promotion. He was a well-known Creative Director that worked almost twenty years side by side Miranda Priestly, with a pristine reputation that he was ready to gamble away for the new endeavour of Elias-Clarke. He had a good feeling about it and his enthusiasm was contagious. Andy found that she had to gather all of her self-control to reign in her need to ask, _‘What about Miranda?’_

Being around them again made Andy reminisce a lot. It was hard not to think about the woman who had had so much influence in her life in such a short amount of time. There was part of her that wanted to ask him to tell her that she was thankful, to offer the apology she never gave. Maybe she should write it between the lines of Life Stories page in _The Mirror_ , now that she knew she read it.

She thought back on it: she supposed the woman could be playing the long game, just like she had done with Irv. Twist the knife in when she least expected, just like Andy had sent her phone flying in to Les Fontaines de la Concorde and catching the fashion magnate off guard. For someone who let nothing get past her, it probably had been a shock to not to guess that those words would have sent her assistant running like a scaredy cat. The warmth of alcohol dropped into the pit of her stomach. Maybe that was what she was planning all along with Andy. The odd recommendation letter, keeping an eye on her work. Waiting for her to slip up, waiting for the perfect moment to strike a fatal blow. A relentless killing machine.

She took a cab home, watching the bustling New York City through the window and the lights, and the life that it bussed with. After parting ways with Nigel and Emily, they found themselves agreeing to ‘do this more often’ and she felt genuinely happy and a lot less silly about replying to Nigel’s e-mail.

As she went up the narrow staircase of her apartment building, drowning out the sounds of rowdy neighbours out of habit, filtering the smell of vomit on the steps like it was a regular occurrence (it was), Andy thought about how different her life turned out to be.

Growing up in Ohio, when she was a little girl she never knew what she wanted to be. Every other day, she wanted to be something different. Most often, she remembered, she wanted to be an astronaut, because she wanted to touch the stars and live on the moon. Her father tried to steer her to Law school, but when she finished high school with remarkably good grades, she still wasn’t sure about the future – not like Jill, who always knew she wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. She took a gap year to volunteer within the community and ended up picking up a liking for people’s stories, to listen and re-tell them. Her mother was the one that made her realise that maybe that was it, telling stories. It had always been something she enjoyed, so why not tell stories the world should listen to?

And so, she had gone to Northwestern University, and at twenty-four, decided to try her luck in New York.

Locking the door behind her, she shrugged off her coat and hanging it and the _pochette_ on the hook on the wall. She leaned a hand on the door and pulled off her red boots, dropping them on the floor to enjoy the feeling of freedom on her feet. She stared at the Rodartes and snorted to herself.

Yes, she had gotten lucky in New York, more than she ever thought possible. It had taken almost two years for that shoe to drop, but better late than never.

Everyone wants to be us.

She looked outside the window, not bothering turning the lights on. By now, she knew the layout of the place well enough to navigate it with her eyes closed – not like there was a whole lot of space to memorise. Glancing at the cold night sky as she leaned on the window sill, Andy frowned to herself. Part of her wondered what would have happened if she had gone to _Auto Universe_ instead. Would she know who Miranda Priestly was, if she had headed to the other publication like Nate had suggested? She thought that maybe her life would have been simpler, but simple wasn’t something she wanted anymore. She was too late for that. Her ambitious spirit wouldn’t let her.

It was such a foreign thought to her that it made her uncomfortable to even put forward the possibility of a world where she had no idea who the terrifying white-haired woman was. If that part of her life was gone, she could very well never be where she was.

Andy wondered if she pursed her lips at her articles or if she gave an imperceptible nod. A gnawing curiosity bubbled in her chest. She must have an opinion on her writing, on her approach to the subjects she wrote about – the woman was known to have an opinion on everything, after all. Andy shouldn’t care about it, but she did. What if she didn’t like her articles? Worse, what if she _did_ like them?

What a strange thought, she mused, wondering why she cared about the opinion of a person that wasn’t in her life anymore when she never wanted to hear about Jason’s when they were together.

She looked around the small apartment with a rueful smile. It was empty and quiet, save for the noise from the people outside, the occasional siren of an ambulance in the distance. All that conversation about choices had left her thoughtful, and she found herself wondering how Miranda had managed. If she was honest, she had to say that she didn’t do that good of a job with, as far as she knew, two divorces. At least she had a huge Saint Bernard and two kids to keep her company and to distract her from an empty personal life.

She wondered if she even thought about that. She remembered all the other successful men that never struggled, never faltered. Life wasn’t very fair, not even in the circle that women supposedly reigned.

Simple and easy really wasn’t meant for the likes of them.

With a long-suffering sigh, she headed to the bathroom to remove her make-up and strip down to shove her comfortable Northwestern hoodie down her head, before dragging herself to bed. 

She fell asleep with a smile as a thought fluttered by: she wondered if she still did the crosswords.


	3. Knight To Bishop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is riddled with errors, but I'm too exhausted to do my double check. Thanks for all your comments so far.

Alan Jordan’s replacement was not Andy Sachs.

The news came in the form of forty-two-years-old Malika Fahim, a Bangladesh born and New York bred journalist that had been working with _The Mirror_ as a freelancer, covering the conflicts in the Middle East, with a focus on the Israeli-Pakistan situation, and a side of National Politics.

Andy hadn’t heard any official proposal, not even one to move to the Politics desk, and had to swallow down the bile that had bubbled in her liver when Fahim was announced as the new Senior Reporter. She should have known she wasn’t going to get the spot, it was such a big leap, but it still stung.

She had learned to live on hope and she had worked hard at every opportunity to deliver the best possible articles. Her coverage of Obama’s inauguration had been nothing short of detailed, but Eddie Mendoza had published his own instead, giving her proper feedback – the work provided had been good, but it they needed more, they needed great.

She knew that the new hire had a better portfolio than she did, more experience and therefore the spot should go to her. But logic was not a friend of disappointment, so she took it upon herself to drag Lily and Doug and demand their support in these trying times.

“You’re such a drama queen,” Doug said as he sat down next to Lily.

Andy made an offended noise at the accusation but didn’t respond right away because her mouth was full of nachos.

“Jeez, Doug, you really know what to say.” Lily snorted, rolling her eyes at their friend. “You’ll get your chance, it just wasn’t it this time.”

“Not helping,” Andy grumbled, a mouthful of chewed nachos still being worked on. Doug made a ‘ _you’re gross’_ face. She swallowed them down with a sip of her drink and wiped her fingers on the paper napkin. “You’re supposed to be here and support me, not being the voice of reason.”

“Well, in that case!” Doug grabbed the margarita jug and poured another round, making the table laugh. “Have you ever thought about moving?”

“What, jobs? Are you kidding me? This industry is so hard to get into I would need more than just luck to find something. A virgin sacrifice, and that’s a _maybe_.”

“You could always go back to being second assistant, that’s close enough to blood oaths and virgin sacrifices, now that you’re back to meeting your fashionista friends.” Doug joked with a glint in his eyes and Andy had to control herself not to bristle or protest too hard. “Do you think you should write _threw a company phone in a fountain_ in your resumé as a show of character?”

“Ha ha, you should be a comedian.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ll be here all night,” and he gave a mock bow, waving his hand daintily to a fictional crowd.

“Seriously, Andy, you should start looking. I know you love the guys at _The Mirror_ , but in the end, if you don’t make your move, you can’t wait for someone to do it for you. They like your work for Life Stories, I don’t think they are going to move you to Politics because you asked nicely or because your new article on the community centre is tangentially related to the mayor’s office. Or you could always start a blog,” Lily shrugged, leaning back. “It’s worth a shot. Everyone is turning to the digital format anyway.”

“Or find a rebound guy. Maybe he’ll inspire you,” Doug wiggled his eyebrows and they laughed when Andy reached out and slapped him on his forehead.

After the margaritas and nachos, Andy started to think harder on Lily’s words. With her hope of moving to Jordan’s desk crushed by Fahim, who was working on a piece Andy had wanted to about the resignation of Iceland’s Prime Minister due to the country’s financial crisis and the collapse of its banking system, she decided that it couldn’t hurt to give it a try. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to take the advice – while dismissing Doug’s entirely.

Late in the evening, she would scavenge every corner of the internet on her laptop for job openings around New York. She would write a cover letter to each of them and attach her CV to the e-mail, and crawl to bed no earlier than 2AM before slamming her alarm shut as it rang loudly in the morning.

She hadn’t expected January to betray her like this on the last week, especially when the year had started out so well. Reconnecting with Nigel and Emily had made her realise there would always be part of her that would miss the world of fashion, the cacophony of it, all of that _stuff_. Every time they managed to coincide their hours, they would go out for coffee after work or during lunch hours and they talk with a smoothness that she didn't think they had before. They hadn’t been able to repeat the Ear Inn endeavour, but it was still nice to see them once in a while. On top of that, February was right around the corner and _Galvanize_ ’s launch party was looming near. Everyone was too busy and by the time Andy had the day off, she would spend it doing laundry and drafting out articles.

She enjoyed writing and writing without the approval of her editor sounded like a dream come true. She couldn’t use any work that was intended for articles for _The Mirror_ , but discarded pieces or rejected ideas were fair game.

When Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir became the new Prime Minister of Iceland, making history as the world’s first openly gay woman head of government, Andy had gotten only one reply to her e-mails and it was a standard _‘thank you, but no thank you’_ reply from an automated account.

Her self-pity thought that maybe Doug’s advice had been the right one.

Tuesday rolled around on a nice note. The mailroom clerk rolled by her desk with his sleepless temp look, and dropped a fancy-looking charcoal envelope that was not seen often outside of the Events Desk. She turned it around, and was greeted with her name in silver and written with a beautiful calligraphy. She used a tissue to clean her fingers that had been holding an onion bagel. It would be offensive to touch it without doing so, she decided, and opened it, pulling out the formal invitation to _Galvanize_ ’s Launch Party on the 28th of February. Writing back to confirm her presence, she dropped it in the mail box - which really was just a blue bucket.

“Hey, Clancy,” she called out, rolling her chair over to his desk. Misjudging the strength necessary, she rolled past him slowly, but the other reporter didn’t even look away from his screen or over his shoulder as he typed away with hyper focus, chewing on a piece of pink bubblegum. She scooted awkwardly on her legs with the grace of a drunk giraffe.

“Are you working on the Harlem piece?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Do you need me for anything on it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m heading to archives then. Ping me if you need me?”

“Hmm.”

There was something about journalists and lack of eloquence in this newsroom that never made any sense to anyone.

The archives were a cramped room where files were stored in deceptive organisation in boxes marked with years and titles, arranged by desks and chronological order on wooden shelves stacked into metal bars, dividing the room into corridors. There were a few tables close to the wall and creaky lights hanging from the ceiling. Some people joked about it being more akin to a murder room. Some people would probably be right.

She found Malika Fahim hunched over some notes with a laptop on the table, typing down whatever research she was conducting. She looked over to Andy, her short black hair pulled back and away from her hazel eyes, the sleeves of her green cardigan and white shirt rolled up to her elbows. She raised her head when she heard Andy come in and her eyebrows raise as her lips curled into a small smile.

“Sachs, right?”

She nodded, “Andy Sachs, yeah.”

“Life Stories?”

She tried to not to flinch, “Yup, that’s the one.”

Fahim smiled like she knew some kind of secret and glanced back at her laptop. A Word file filled the screen with words Andy couldn’t quite make out from her distance. The older journalist seemed to notice her curious glance and tilted her head to beckon her closer. She pulled the file she had open around for Andy to see. She was working on some notes on the International Criminal Court.

“I’m scrapping the rust out of my knowledge on the ICC for a piece I’m working. You busy? I could use the extra pair of hands and eyes.”

Andy had to control herself to not to jump at the opportunity being handed to her in a silver spoon. She did manage to hold that in, but she did not pull back on the wide grin that made its way to her face. Fahim laughed at her enthusiasm and held up a hand.

“Whoa, there, Sachs. Your electricity bill must be obscene with a smile that bright,” the woman said, pushing a pile of folders towards her. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You can call me Andy. It’s nice to have another woman around.”

“It’s a bit of a boy’s club here, yeah?” the senior reporter asked without expecting any reply, pulling up a couple of web pages on her laptop. “Alright, Andy. Then return the favour, call me Malika.”

They spent the better part of the following two hours looking into the history of the ICC, in between Malika sharing her experiences as a freelancer. Her father was a British photographer for a big-name magazine and her mother was an English teacher in Bangladesh. They met there and travelled around the world and when Malika was born, they moved to New York to settle down. She had spent some time in Turkey and Israel when she was younger with her father and had managed to land a correspondent job with _The Mirror_ after an opinion piece on Muammar Gaddifi that Greg Hill had loved. After that, she continued to go freelance because she thought that she had a better control of her schedule and managed to balance her life. Her divorce made her realise that she actually had a lot less time than she thought.

“My ex-wife made it very clear that it was either this,” she gestured at the files they were going through. “Or her.”

“I guess I know the answer to that.”

Malika clicked her tongue and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but Andy thought she saw a flicker of sadness in her eyes. Her story was only one of the many in their line of work. There was a better chance to find a divorcee or a single-and-not-ready-to-mingle journalist than happening upon a happily married one. As far as she knew, Greg and Clancy were one of the few.

“Sucks,” she said lamely, giving her a thin-lipped smile. Malika just shrugged again.

“And you?”

“Me?” Andy laughed and shook her head. “No, no way. I’ve barely begun, I don’t think I could make the time now.”

Malika hummed quietly and went back to work. 

On her way out to lunch, Andy stopped by Dolores’s office. The woman had been with _The Mirror_ longer than anyone currently working there remembered. She was a nice old lady who took over the crosswords page, making use of her English degree. She worked near the archives surrounded by dictionaries and old encyclopaedias, meticulously arranging crosswords and researching a wide manner of synonyms. Building that box of black and white squares took some manner of mastery and Dolores could probably do it in her sleep.

“Well, hello there, Andy.”

She must have been staring, because the old woman was giving her a sweet but confused look as she stood there by her door. Andy blinked a couple of times and laughed awkwardly and offered a big smile.

“You look very dainty today.”

Dolores chuckled, and wrote something down.

“Dainty, that’s a good word. I should use for the next time I need a six-letter word.”

“You must be a beast at Scrabble.”

“My grandchildren refuse to play with me,” she said with an amused sigh.

Before she knew what she was saying, Andy blurted out, “It’s interesting what you do. So many people do crossword puzzles, but I don’t think anyone ever thinks about the effort it takes to build one,” and at the awkward silence, Andy offered her eloquent response. “I… like… words?”

She winced at herself and Dolores stared for a moment, then offered a hearty laugh, bowing her head to browse through the dictionary she had in front of her.

“That’s very nice of you, dear. Maybe I will dial your desk if I need a word or two in the future.”

Andy took that as her cue to leave, mouthing a ‘ _What the hell, Sachs?’_ to herself with her big brown eyes wide.

 

* * *

 

 

Nigel took the lift to _Runway_ after getting a call from Miranda’s office. _Galvanize_ would make its American debut soon, launching on the 2 nd of March with a promising design and an avant-garde spirit built around strong headlines and an impressive team of editors, writers, and photographers, all about the latest fashion trends and the hottest tech gadgets – it was all about the advertising and sponsorships, after all. With a fresh face, it had tested extremely positive with the sample audience.

But that was not enough.

Sale numbers would be what could make it or break it. Word of the mouth, critical acclaim. He needed all and then some to cement his positon.

And he didn’t dare to think of disappointing Miranda. After the cue in Paris, he had been left hurt, but he had remained by her side. It was a screwed up sense of loyalty and pride that had prevented him from leaving. Nothing as dramatic as Andy, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t looked into other publications – with his name, he could go anywhere he wanted. But, the truth was, there was nowhere like _Runway_ , so he had remained. Rebuilding his relationship with Miranda after that had been, to put it mildly, tough. But in the end, they both lived on hope. Forgiven but not forgotten, had been what he had compromised. And Miranda hadn’t forgotten either. It had taken two years, but she had delivered her promise. Now, he sat on a new path and he would dictate his own terms.

Walking past Carmen and Diana, who looked like she was going to faint as always, he headed into the office where Miranda was going through some samples with Serena while two other women were arranging the clothes rack behind them with new pieces from various designers.

“This one, then?” Serena suggested, looking up at Nigel. She offered him a smile and a nod. Miranda was observing the make-up colours and didn’t spare a glance. She had a hand on her hip, the other sliding her finger back and forth on her chin in thought while holding her reading glasses. After a moment of silent contemplation, she nodded and turned around to the line of clothes being wheeled closer to her.

“That’s all,” she dismissed Serena and the Brazilian headed out, patting him on the arm on her way out. “Nigel.”

“Good morning, Miranda.”

She turned around to the clothes rack and made a dismissive hand gesture to the tall model-like women, and they scurried off. Miranda grabbed a jacket and turned it around to appreciate the details with a pensive look.

“How are things at _Galvanize_?”

This wasn’t small talk. The woman was taking a risk with the new publication, putting her name on the line – she had to trust her instincts often, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be careful and controlling. She trusted him, but she still wanted to know what was happening. In fact, he often thought the biggest advantage he had for having been placed as Editor-in-Chief of _Galvanize_ was the fact he shared a rare friendship with Miranda – and Paris. He wouldn’t look an offer like that with anything but enthusiasm and that wouldn’t damper his penchant for nothing short of excellence. He knew she could trust him to do what she asked if needed to be, but at the same time, he had the feeling she didn’t want to hold his hand through it, thus putting a person she trusted and valued ahead of the publication made sense. She would be watching like a hawk during the first months and he would make sure she would never need to interfere. He wanted to separate this conquest from her, but baby steps were the way to go.

“Busy,” Nigel said, making a face at the skirt that she picked next, matching the more subtle purse of lips of the white-haired woman. “You called.”

Miranda glanced at him, in that almost disquieting way that he was used to. There was very little left she could do to him that would elicit fear nowadays. He still respected her, but he didn’t fear her. Usually.

“I want you to come with me for the new Holt showing. He is trying to go for a menswear line.”

“And you want to prevent a disaster.”

Miranda didn’t smile, but there was a small quirk of her mouth that Nigel knew meant amusement. The woman had always been very subdued in everything.

“I want _you_ to see it. _Galvanize_ is supposed to focus on the modern man, is it not?”

Nigel smiled and pulled his glasses to wipe them with his burgundy handkerchief. This was Miranda’s way of saying she would trust his decision, his opinion – as long as it was the correct one, of course, which meant it would have to be the same as hers.

“Of course. When is it?”

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Does he know that?”

Miranda didn’t say anything, looking at him instead. No, it meant, and he should know better than to ask her questions. Being made Editor-in-Chief had given him _some_ bravado. Nevertheless, he nodded and pulled out his phone out to call his assistant. He didn’t terrorise her like Miranda did with hers, but she still picked up after one ring.

“I need you to cancel my lunch. Just tell him something came up. No, no, that’s fine, move it to Thursday. No, tell that boy that I want the interview portraits ready for print _yesterday_ so he better have them _now_. Oh! And ask Andy if she can do Friday. Yes, that’s fine. That’s it, yes. Thanks, Allison.”

As he finished the call, he found Miranda looking at him in a way he hadn’t seen before, and it took him a moment to realise what had just happened: he had just spoken _that_ name out loud, in her office, in her presence. Nigel opened his mouth, but he didn’t get a word in before Miranda, who spoke in her soft whispering tone.

“Andrea?”

Nigel felt a cold sweat break out in his lower abdomen. Yes, bravado was one thing, but this subject was still dangerous, like threading shark-filled waters. Well, one shark in particular.

“Ah, yes. We have been… reconnecting.” An arched eyebrow told him he should get some details in with that explanation. “We got in touch just after the New Year. Emily and I went out for a few drinks and it just ended up becoming a thing,” he watched as she pursed her lips at the use of the word _thing_ , which wasn’t so different from the word _stuff_. He might as well rip the rest of the bandage in one go. “I invited her to the launch party.”

Miranda didn’t say anything, walking over to her desk to store her reading glasses in a black velvet box. Her Prada pumps clicked against the silence that had filled the office – even outside where the two assistant sat seemed eerily quiet, like that name had been heard all the way down to Accessories, with the whole of _Runway_ holding its breath.

“If it’s a problem, Miranda—“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she interjected almost immediately, adjusting the Givenchy belt to the waist of her Dior black pencil skirt. “It’s your launch. If you want to invite a small time Life Stories reporter to it, it is your prerogative.”

Her tone was so final and deadly he didn’t dare to comment on the fact that she knew which desk was Andy’s.

“Carmen,” she said from where she stood, smoothing out her white blazer over the golden shirt as she waited for Diana to rush in to her office like a rabbit about to die of a heart attack. Sometimes, she reminded Nigel of a young Emily. “Call Roy. We’re leaving to Holt’s Studios now. Come along, Nigel.”

He followed her outside as she took the coat and bag from Diana’s hands to take the lift down to her new silver Mercedes-Benz, parked at the entrance of the building. On the way out, Carmen gave him a pointed look. _Thanks for making this day harder._

 

* * *

 

 

Sitting at a Starbucks with her laptop open and a blank Word page, Andy stared out the window to watch people rushing to work in that morning’s freezing weather.

She hadn’t been able to sleep even though it was her day off, so she had decided to grab her laptop and her notes to work on some articles away from the less-than-pleasant crying baby above her studio apartment. Sleep was something she never did a lot of anyway, and coffee was her ever-loyal companion.

The problem was, she was fighting against a writer’s block currently stopping her from doing any real work.

Sighing, she reached for her coffee and sipped the warm sugary liquid, both her hands wrapped around the Styrofoam cup to warm her fingers. She looked around the place, taking in the spacious lounge. There was a group of college students that resembled harassed zombies with piles of books and notes spread on the table they were sharing, one of the girls asleep on an open book while other used her body to prop herself up and Andy smiled, reminded of her time at Northwestern. A few businessmen sipped their espressos on the stand-up tables while reading _The Economist_ , and people that needed to start their day with a shot or three of caffeine were queueing up as the busy baristas shouted names and hurried the orders along. 

Her phone buzzed on the table, snapping her out of her peaceful thoughts of mundane life. She looked down and frowned at the caller ID, picking it up. Her elbow rested on the notebook, setting the Starbucks cup next to her laptop.

“Hey, Malika. What’s up?”

“Morning, good to catch you up. Listen, Andy, I know it’s your day off, but I was wondering if you had some free time around, say, ten-thirty?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Great! Meet me outside of the Broome County Court Clerks at 10AM.”

“Uh. Okay, but–“ the line went dead on the other end and Andy pulled the phone back around to confirm that Malika had hung up on her. With a frown, she scratched her head and set it back down on the table. That was weird.

She closed the lid of her laptop and blinked, wondering that the ominous call was all about.

At ten in the morning, she was waiting outside in the cold in her puffy jacket and blue scarf, her breathing coming out as foggy mist, rubbing her hands together. It was cold enough to make ice on the sidewalk, she thought as she hopped on one foot to the other to keep her blood flowing and to avoid frozen feet.

Malika came rushing out of a cab, smiling at Andy with an audio recorder in her waving hand and a bag slung around her shoulder. It was a nice expensive black and red messenger bag, surely designer quality. Quite the contrast with her cheap second-hand brown leather satchel that weighed down crookedly with the laptop and notebook inside it.

“Hey, thanks for coming on such short notice!” Malika said as she walked over. She tilted her Marlboro pack to her but Andy shook her head with a hand held out. Malika lit a cigarette and exhaled thick smoke through her nose and mouth. “I might have gotten a scoop. You know Sean Morgan?”

“Yeah, he’s the Democratic candidate for the 20th District. Why?”

“Yup, that’s the one. Good to know you keep up with the locals,” Malika took another drag of the cigarette and glanced nervously over to the door of the Court, then checked her watch. She looked skittish. “Teddington is getting his balls wrangled. Obama has been playing chess with the 20th District and I think he’s going to get what he wants.”

“You can’t be serious. After Gillibrand, the conservatives are definitely going to take the 20th. I know they’re saying it’s a toss-up, but come on.”

“No, not if the Blues play their game right, and Sean Morgan might just be the Knight over Bishop the Democrats need.”

“Ugh, I don’t play chess.”

Malika huffed and rolled her eyes, “Look, I got someone on the inside, they are saying that there might be a big fucking change of tides because of an endorsement for Morgan and– okay, chess lesson is over, it’s time for action.” She said as an entourage of suits made way out of the Court. “Remind me to invite you over for a game.”

Before Andy even had time to register what she said, she was following her up the steps of the building to push through the small crowd. With her arm stretched out, Malika yelled well over the voices in the area.

“Mr. Morgan! Mr. Morgan, Malika Fahim for _The New York Mirror._ I’ve got sources claiming that Elias-Clarke is endorsing your campaign. Is this true?”

Floored, like someone had punched the air out of her gut, Andy stared at Malika and whipped her head around to stare at the candidate who looked as surprised as she did, put on the spot. He recovered quickly with an all-American smile.

There was nothing wrong with endorsements, and they were always important to legitimise a candidate, but why would a publisher mostly known for its lifestyle magazines want to stay behind a politician was beyond Andy.

“The publishing industry has always been an economic drive for the great state of New York. President Obama has taken great interest in policies regarding the creation of more jobs and our party takes this task very seriously, miss–?”

“Fahim,” she didn’t seem bothered he hadn’t caught her name on the first try. With an opening like that, Andy was sure she was used to people staggering at first. Still, Morgan had recovered remarkably well.

“Miss Fahim,” he smiled. “I have indeed been in talks with some of the Editors-in-Chief of Elias-Clarke to devise a plan to create more opportunities to the many Americans fresh out of college. We want to create a new system of internships that can put our young graduates in the middle of a work place with prospects for building a future for themselves, this city, and the United States. There is nothing else I can divulge for now. You understand, yes?”

“Can you tell us any of the names of these editors?” Andy’s voice came louder than she expected.

Malika glanced over to her, but the younger reporter didn’t look at her. She had to know the names. She had to know if at least _one_ name was there. She wanted to know how deep a certain someone’s play was, if she was so dead set on wiping the people that stood in her way out of the empire she had built around herself. This was bigger than any list of photographers and designers that would follow her to the end of the world. If she was right, if what her gut was telling her was accurate, this kind of power move was more than a mere game. This was the real deal. She didn’t need to ask herself if she would go that far to keep her throne, Andy knew she would. She would stop at nothing and she knew by instinct that Irv Ravitz was involved somehow.

A shiver rocked up her spine at the thought of a master of chess moving pawns coldly across a polished board and sacrificing anything necessary to ensure victory. No, not victory this time around. Full on demise.

The politician held his polite smile as his aides began to push away the crowd that had gathered around them.

“None I can disclose at the moment, but you will be hearing more in the upcoming weeks. I’m very sorry, but I am late for a meeting. If you’ll excuse us.”

As Sean Morgan walked into his car, Andy stared at him with a dazed look, ignoring whatever Malika was saying about a good question while snapping a few pictures with her iPhone. The older woman nudged Andy’s in the ribs, which she barely felt due to the amount of layers she was wearing, but it was enough to make her listen to her again, her eyes following the silver Audi driving away.

“Like I said,” the senior reporter lit another cigarette and took a drag, smoke curling through teeth. “Knight to Bishop.”

Andy wasn’t so sure if it wasn’t more of a Queen’s move


	4. Piece by Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a bit earlier because I'm not sure I will be around tomorrow (it's Friday where I am anyway so...!). It also only took four chapters for them to be in the same place. I suck.

The gravel under the tires crinkled, muted out by the soft sound of rain as the car came to a stop. Roy glanced at the rearview mirror to the backseat where his boss sat with a pensive look. He didn’t say anything as he turned the engine off. He set his eyes back on the road, watching the occasional luxurious car driving by the adjacent road. The Upper East Side neighbourhood could only be afforded by those that had a substantial wealth, but it was a private place where celebrities were vetoed from staying at to ensure the privacy of the residents. It wouldn’t do to a person such as Miranda Priestly to live somewhere where paparazzi camped out. If not for the woman’s enjoyment of privacy, then at least for the sake of her twins. She never liked to expose them to the world of gossip magazines and sorry excuses of online influencers, but Roy could guess that the young Priestly twins wouldn’t mind living surrounded by their idols.

The click of the door made him glance back again. Without a word but a silent look that decades of being her _chauffeur_ had taught them that it meant “good night”, Miranda walked out of the car and in to the townhouse. Roy waited until she walked inside before turning the engine back on to drive away.

Roy could always tell when something was off. He wouldn’t voice his concern, but he did worry when the girls were away with their father all the way at Wainscott. He would wait around for a while longer during those weekends, but on this occasion, that concern was not on his mind as the girls were around. It left him more at ease.

He had been her driver even before the twins were born, most likely the oldest employee she has had – in fact, he had chosen to remain on her side even after the divorce. He supposed there was no pay for real loyalty. Regardless of her difficult persona, Miranda was much more than Page Six and other tabloids spoke about. Above all, she was a woman he respected and had come to like in a strange way. There was a lot more to her than people gave her credit for. In fact, there was only one person he could remember that understood her the most, sometimes, he had found himself wondering after Paris, more than any but the young assistant wasn’t there anymore. The loss of her bubbly nature had been an unexpected strain on the woman’s life.

It was a thought that wasn’t far from Miranda’s mind.

Closing the front door behind her, Miranda pulled her coat out and hung it in the entrance closet, smoothing it to avoid any creases on the expensive fabric. She glanced down the hall at the tell-tale claws on hard wood warning her to the presence of Patricia, the enormous Saint Bernard – an indulgence for the twin’s eleventh birthday that she secretly admitted to be the best one so far. The giant dog _wroofed_ in greeting and almost sashayed over to Miranda, bumping her massive head against her leg. She scratched her behind the ears before sighing tiredly. It had been a long day.

The only time she allowed herself to show any weakness was within her fortress. Usually she would make it to her study, but the twins were quiet upstairs, likely finishing their homework, so she let the tiredness take its toll for one second.

Miranda rubbed her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose as the stress of work manifested as a gentle headache. With Nigel heading off to his own publication and a new Creative Director with a tendency for being neurotic, _Runway_ was more chaotic than ever. She had no doubt Emily would do an excellent job, she wouldn’t have given her the position otherwise, but the years of familiarity with Nigel had taken a load off her shoulders which, with the recent changes, had returned. She had to run a tighter ship to avoid any slips ups. It was a crucial moment for her. Nigel could bet his Chanel-loving behind she would have his head on a platter if _Galvanize_ was anything short of a success.

On top of that, there was the Irv Ravitz issue. That reporter from _The New York Mirror_ had blown the lid of tight-lipped conversations with the Democratic candidate and now the dreadful little man was on high alert. Everyone in the inner circle knew Irv was friends with Bob Teddington, so the endorsement of the company to his political opponent for the 20 th District was enough to make him low-key panic. It would have served her better to drop it on him at a more crucial moment, but she could adapt her play. After all these years, keeping him on his toes had always been easy, no matter how many times he tried to go behind her back. He had tried again back in September during Paris Fashion Week, replacing the Editor-in-Chief of _Auto Universe_ with Teddington’s nephew. Unfortunately for the horrid little man, the boy was a complete disaster.

Miranda headed over to the kitchen to fix herself a cup green tea. She took her mug out of the cabinet, setting it on the counter as she put the kettle on. She found herself staring at the mug while the water boiled quietly. It clashed with her expensive china tea set, but it had been a birthday gift from the twins two years ago. She used it all the time. Truth be told, it only bothered her occasionally. The colour, that is. Cassidy had quietly asked in a December morning what colour she liked best that season – it had been after _that_ Paris Fashion Week. Without thought, Miranda had said cerulean blue.

Setting the tea leaves on the strainer in to the nice china teapot, she leaned against the pristine white marble of her kitchen counter with a hand on her hip, the other playing with the necklace resting on her collarbones as she looked off to nowhere, mind wandering.

The reporter from _The Mirror_ hadn’t been the one she was expecting to see taking over Alan Jordan’s place. He was an old university classmate of her first husband Charles, so she was aware of his departure via mutual friends, but she assumed Greg was going to give the seat to _someone_ else.

Pulling a grimace akin to one done after biting into a bitter lemon, Miranda shook her head to clear her thoughts and grabbed the kettle, pouring it in to the teapot. As the tea brewed, she tapped her fingers against the counter.

Not only had _that_ happened, now Nigel and Emily were _reconnecting_ with no-one other than Andrea. That insufferable, doe-eyed girl from Ohio, the one with a smile so bright it could light a room, with enough ambition to tackle down armies, never waiting for permission to succeed. The one that had surprised her. Miranda did not appreciate being proven wrong, but again and again, the girl did so. She didn’t feel like any of the others, who fell head over heels to please her. When she did her job, she was doing out of a sense of pride in herself, Miranda could see, and she knew all too well the gleam in those eyes – she was doing it to tell her with actions and not words that there was nothing she couldn’t do. It did remind her of herself, back when she was her age. She had seen the growing ambition. The will that the younger woman possessed that was so alike her own, that she would go to the end of the Earth to conquer her own world, a tenacity that she didn’t think the brunette had even realised she had. And then…

 _Dissonance_.

What an irritating thing to hold on to.

“Hey, Mom,” called out a soft voice from the door, pulling her away from thoughts that were far too dangerous.

Cassidy had her reading glasses pushed up to the top of her head, red hair caught in a messy bun – she knew this look all too well, the more serious twin had been studying hard as always. Caroline followed after, shuffling her feet with yellow striped socks on, looking far too tired for a sixteen-years-old girl.

For everyone else, the twins could only be told apart by their now different hair styles, but Miranda didn’t need that to tell them apart. She knew all the little details nobody else noticed. For her, they couldn’t be more different, from the timbre of their voice to their scent, from the way they stood in a room to the small perfections that dotted their faces.

Her features softened at the sight of her daughters and turned to greet them. After two divorces, she had decided to take a long, if not permanent, break of finding a partner that understood the demands of her job, a partner that didn’t sulk at being Miranda Priestly’s husband, and above all, a partner that loved her twins half as much as she loved them. Stephen had tried, but in the end, he had failed miserably. They barely spoke anymore.

“Whatcha doin’?” Caroline mumbled, which told her she had stayed up all night again and was struggling with her studies. She worried her, because she was a mother and couldn’t help but to do so. There was little she could do to try to make her more focused on academia short of grounding her and taking away the social liberties she allowed, but Miranda couldn’t bring herself to. It would be unfair for the twin that was the biggest social butterfly on the house, the one who always made friends no matter where she went – on that, she reminded her of Charles and his easy charm. Miranda was aware she was far too permissive with them, but guilt of missing out on some parts of her life didn’t let her be anything less than.

She frowned and the more freckled girl straightened up as she caught her awful grammar, holding up her hands in both defeat and apology.

“Sorry, uhm– may we have some of that tea too, please?”

“I suppose I could spare some,” Miranda said, kissing the top of their heads as they walked past her to take a seat at the table. If she wasn’t wearing her six inches Louboutin pumps, they would have to tip their heads for her to reach. On height, they both taken after their father. “How was your day?”

“Ehn,” Caroline said with a shrug, grabbing their mugs from the cupboard.

“Irène is moving back to France in April, so we should look for another piano teacher,” Cassidy rolled her eyes at her sister, as always picking up after her lack of eloquence.

“I could do without piano lessons,” Caroline said sheepishly, in a tentative tone looking guilty. Miranda looked at her pointedly and the girl squirmed under the scrutiny of her mother’s eyes. “It’s just… I don’t have a lot of time to practice with all the extra-curricular stuff—“

“ _Activities_ , Caroline Sophia.”

“Yeah, activities. Anyway, what I mean is, I kinda— _kind of_ wanted to spend more time working my other _activities_ …” She trailed off, glancing at her sister in the search for some back up and then back to their mother, who was pouring tea for them.

“She’s not very good anyway. Irène keeps telling her she makes weird dissonant sounds.”

Miranda, who was pouring the boiling water into the teapot, almost spilled it over her hand at the word. She schooled herself to remain in control of her features, turning around to her twins, who looked confused by the miniscule reaction. Not like at work, Miranda was far more open with them as their mother. Besides, they were perceptive to her subtle mood changes more than anyone else. Thankfully, this time she could blame it on Caroline’s confession.

“Yes, well,” Miranda tapped her index finger against the counter and eyed her eldest critically, who was looking more nervous by the second. She sighed and arched her eyebrows, defeated by those blue eyes that melted the ice around her heart. “I suppose we could discuss this at length at dinner.”

Caroline beamed a smile of relief and nodded enthusiastically, taking the teapot and serving the three of them, smiling behind her mug and she drank the tea at its scalding temperature much like her mother enjoyed. Cassidy smiled and blew on hers to cool it down.

“Are we still allowed to go to Uncle Nigel’s party?”

“That depends on your grades, Bobbsey.”

“I guess that’s our cue to go back and hit the books.”

“I think that’s why you’ve stagnated in Biology. You’re supposed to read them, not hit them,” Cassidy smirked at her sister, grabbing her tea and heading out.

“Har har.”

Miranda smiled at their squabble and hummed gently. She enjoyed the silence more than anything, but the sounds of her daughters were music to her ears and made her chaotic world filled with warm colours of the Fall and golden sunsets. They stayed for a while longer discussing the dresses they wanted to wear and how school was going, before Cassidy decided it was time to get some study before dinner. Caroline didn’t argue and followed suit – like the sun and the moon, the two could have the most vicious fights, but when they got along, they were a team no person could take down. Miranda should know all too well. Tilting her face towards them as they kissed her on the way back to their rooms, she sat in silence as the headache dissipated behind the warmth of home. Not long after, music came from upstairs as the twins returned to their homework.

Left to her thoughts again, Miranda found herself frowning at the idea of the launch party. With the twins coming along, she knew she would have to stay longer than the polite flute of champagne, but the conversation with Nigel had made her rethink her position. She didn’t know if she should be in the same room as the woman who been so insolent to her, the woman she had let live. The memory of that day was forever embedded in her memory. The Fall was always her favourite season, but October tasted of bitter almond.

Miranda had sent her running for suggesting they were similar. For suggesting she saw a lot of herself in the young assistant – a sentence that had never left her lips before, and had never felt right since. She had sent her running for speaking the truth. That everyone wanted to be them. She had not said _her_ , she had not used the singular. _Us_. She It had felt right, to put Andrea on equal footing.

Perhaps she had been wrong. It wasn’t the same thrill of being proven wrong, because there had not been a fight. It had ended in a company phone unceremoniously dumped into a fountain.

She had to give it to her, at least she had still showed her claws in the end. It had been the only reason why she had allowed her to flee without a wound. And hope, the thing she lived on, had been the only reason why she had laughed at the sight of her bright smile and brown eyes. She had thought for a second that maybe, she hadn’t been that wrong.

And then Life Stories had happened.

She checked the time on the golden watch around her wrist. Carmen would be there with The Book soon. She headed to the study, sitting down at her mahogany desk to check her e-mails on her laptop.

Work was always a good way to chase away thoughts she didn’t need occupying her already busy mind.

 

* * *

 

 

She never thought it would end up like this. Backed in to a corner with no way out. It didn’t matter whatever she could come up with because there was nothing that would save her. Not being able to get out of trouble or not finding of a solution for a problem was a knock to her pride. Giving up wasn’t in her blood, but she had to face the reality of the situation and throw in the towel. She flickered her brown eyes up and hazel ones with tones of honey greeted her back in open defiance.

“Crap,” Andy said with a defeated but amused laugh, flopping back down on the seat. She threw her hands up in the air. “You’re too good!”

Malika chuckled and took the White King out of the table between her fingers, showing it off like a hunter holding her trophy.

“Don’t tell me you wanted me to go soft on you.”

 “Don’t you dare,” she scoffed and reached over to take her tea cup from the table, blowing on the hot beverage before taking a sip.

The senior reporter had made good on her promise of teaching her chess. Andy wasn’t very good, but the Bangladeshi woman seemed to take pleasure in making her squirm as she destroyed her on the chess board. Most of the black pieces remained in place, whereas her white army only the Queen and a Bishop had survived.

Laughing at her misery, Malika placed the pieces on the board again and set them up for a rematch. While she did so, Andy looked around the place. It was a nice apartment, well-lit with tall, wide windows, with a minimalist design with only the occasional dashes of colour on the mostly white place. Even her cat was white, the fur ball stretched out on the table to get the scarce rays of sunlight that slipped through the window. It seemed that Malika didn’t spend a lot of time in there, which didn’t surprise her, although she couldn’t help but to think that if this was her apartment, Andy would probably spend more time in there than she did in her studio. There was no screaming baby at 3AM nor drunk fights in the hall. There wasn’t even a trace of dried out vomit in the stairs outside.

“Are you working this weekend?”

“Huh?” Andy blinked and turned her head to Malika, who was looking at her. She was obviously zoning out again. Smiling her brightest grin, she shook her head and took another sip of the tea before setting it down. “Nope, not this weekend.”

“Nice,” she said, nudging the board so that Andy could take the first move again.

Malika watched her as she debated on which pawn to move, glancing occasionally to the black pieces on her side as if to try and guess what would be her next move. At least she was learning. Chess was all about anticipating your opponent’s next move or manipulating them into doing what they wanted without them ever noticing it. It wasn’t unlike politics in that sense.

“There’s a new exhibition on photojournalism in war zones at the Houk gallery. Some friends of mine are heading there on Saturday. Would you like to come?”

Andy stopped what she was doing, her fingers hovering over a pawn, and stared up at her. She scrunched up her nose in a way Malika was getting accustomed to – it meant that she had something to say but didn’t want to offend. Honestly, the girl was too easy to read. She needed to work on her poker face if she wanted to become a better journalist. The hounds would eat her alive if she went in like that.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got something going on,” she moved a pawn forward.

“Oh? A date?” Malika placed her black pawn so that it would block Andy’s. She watched as the other woman frowned at her move and moved her Bishop.

“Nope,” Andy scratched her head and waited for Malika’s move to play the same, landing her Knight behind the Bishop. “A friend’s party.”

“Do I get a name?”

“Hmm,” the younger woman seemed to focus on the board more than the conversation.

After Sean Morgan, Malika had decided to throw some minor work in the younger reporter’s direction whenever Clancy wasn’t looking. Having read some of the articles written by her, she had decided she had a unique style and knew how to convey a story, but reading between the lines, she could tell she needed something juicier than life stories. In fact, she had been surprised Mendoza hadn’t taken the article written about Obama’s inauguration. The question she had blurted out had surprised Malika, which led her to look into her past and managed to discover that Andy Sachs had worked for Elias-Clarke prior to being recruited by _The Mirror_. For whatever reason, she was tight lipped about which publication she had worked for, like it was some kind of embarrassing deal. Greg Hill wasn’t talking either. She was trying to steer her into revealing it. So far, she had had very little success, other than it definitely wasn’t _Auto Universe_.

She moved a pawn, leading Andy on to her next move. She smiled when she copied her.

“It’s better if it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Malika laughed and pulled another pawn forward. Andy moved her Bishop back.

“I can bring a plus one.”

Caught off guard, Malika looked up at her chess partner, who was smiling with all her teeth. While she was easy to read, sometimes she managed to surprise others, which made people second-guess their assessment of her. It was fun, in a sense, to be kept on her toes. The pieces kept moving on the board, and the senior reporter sacrificed the first pawn of the game.

“Is that an invitation, Sachs?”

“Only if you say yes, Fahim.”

“You drive a tough bargain,” the woman laughed, moving her Bishop near Andy’s Knight, trying to make her look left while she went right. Everything was quietly calculated. “I guess you leave me no choice. You know better than to tempt a journalist with mystery.”

Laughing in her Disney princess way, the brunette winked, like saying she knew very well what she was doing, and that she had been successful in her goading.

“I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something nice.”

“Something nice?”

“Something very, _very_ nice.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Malika said, taking the White Queen with a Black Knight. “Check mate.”

“Argh!”

Tired of getting her ass handed to her, chess was replaced by some small talk and by the end of the afternoon, Andy was back home to work on her blog – so far, she had not found a story she decided it was good enough to show the world.

The week went by like any other, until Saturday morning. Time dragged out and by the time she was supposed to be picking Malika, Andy’s stomach had knotted itself so hard that she thought she needed a cold shower to calm down.

It didn’t make it any better that the press was surrounding the building as they arrived.

The launch party of _Galvanize_ was a parade of the rich and the famous and the in-betweeners. High profile bloggers of the fashion industry had made sure the event was very public and security was tighter than expected to prevent any embarrassing situations. There were few important figures from the spectrum of national politics, a handful of ambassadors and some activists, mostly there to give the magazine a good image in the eyes of the more environment-conscious of the new age, but clearly not enough to placate the more hardcore anti-fashion crowd, as a handful of people outside a temporary security barrier were screaming bloody murder and murderers at the fur-wearing models. Other than that, it was a relatively peaceful party, if loud and eclectic.

There was a strange feeling pushing at the base of her spine when Andy walked in the lavish venue full of well-dressed, attractive people. She wasn’t sure if it was a misplaced sense of nostalgia or a _déjà vu,_ or something that landed in the middle of it. Music was playing in the background, the DJ stationed in a platform off to the side to not clash with the aesthetic of the place, lights placed strategically to make the space look wider and glamorous. Drafts of the first issue of the upcoming magazine were laid out like a Renaissance style gallery in frames that belonged to an Art History Museum, showing off the creative muscle behind the new publication.

Among the crowd, Andy could recognise a lot of faces, but not the one she was anxiously avoiding. Or maybe the one she was hoping to see. She was definitely not thinking about it.

“Shit, you weren’t kidding about brining something nice to wear,” Malika said, arriving at her side with a glass of punch in each hand. She cleaned up nice, her tall and lanky form graced with a beautiful yellow and orange Tarun Tahiliani gown, with Ellen Barkin’s earrings and bracelets. She had brushed back her short hair in curling waves, giving her a somewhat regal look. “Here, drink up. Holy shit, is that Susy fucking Menkes?”

Andy was not paying a lot of attention to her plus one, instead scanning the crowd. Spotting some familiar faces, she mumbled something about being right back and took off to tap Nigel’s shoulder. He turned around mid-laugh and raised his eyebrows at her, grinning widely.

“Six! You came!”

“Well, I did fill in my RSVP,” she retorted sheepishly, giving him a quick hug, a move that made the people he was having a conversation with raise their eyebrows and walk off to entertain someone that knew that the proper etiquette to any good party was to air-kiss. “You look nice. Tom Ford?”

“Well, well, well, look at you. I see the lessons do stick to Little Miss Sachs,” he laughed and leaned back to appraise her form. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, nodding gently. “I see you went with the Chanel yourself. I like that colour on you. What is it again?”

Andy rolled her eyes, “Cerulean blue.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” he giggled, and bopped her nose playfully. “You look nice. Who did your make-up?”

“ _I_ did.”

“Impressive!”

“Oh, lay off, Nigel, would you?” Emily chirped behind her, and Andy smiled.

The red-head was accompanied by Serena, and both of them looked dashing in their _haute couture_ cocktail dresses and ridiculously expensive jewellery. As always, Emily favoured the British designers, wearing Alexander McQueen, whereas the tall blonde wore a beautiful backless metallic silver Versace gown.

“You remember this mess, Serena?”

The Brazilian laughed and leaned in for a kiss on her cheek. “How could I forget? You look nice, those Galliano shoes are killing it. How’ve you been, Andy?”

“Pretty good. Busy, but good. How’s everything?”

“About the same, I’m now Senior Creative in the Beauty Department, so I can’t complain.”

“Nor should you!” Nigel warned with a wagging finger, but playful tones. “And who is this?”

Andy looked over her shoulder to see Malika giving her a nagging look, and she smiled apologetically. She stepped to the side to let the woman closer to the circle that they had formed, gesturing to her colleague with her hand.

“Sorry, this is Malika Fahim. Senior reporter for _The Mirror_. I brought her as my plus one.”

“Oh, you’re the new Politics girl,” said Nigel, looking head to toe to the woman. “You single-handedly made our last few weeks very difficult with your intrepid spirit on the whole Sean Morgan deal.”

“I aim to disrupt,” she grinned and presented a hand, which Nigel took to shake gently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kipling. Congratulations on your new endeavour. This party is absolutely nuts. Can we expect to see a certain Democrat on this issue?”

“Oh, me- _ow_ ,” Serena made a claw-like gesture at her. “You don’t pull your punches, do you? You really know how to pick them, Andy.”

“Uh, what?” The face the Brazilian was making was far too obvious to what she meant and the younger woman nearly leapt out of her skin and shook her head. “Oh, no! It’s not like that! We’re just colleagues!”

“Ouch, Sachs, don’t sound _so_ horrified.”

Laughter filled the atrium of the venue, and they drank. Malika tried to pry any information on the Elias-Clarke endorsement like she was brandishing a pair of plyers while Andy looked at the crowd again, scanning it far too often with not-so-subtle intent. She didn’t ask Nigel if _she_ was coming, even though she wanted to do so. Then again, it would be unfathomable to not have her at the launch party of the newest publication of Elias-Clarke. Too much bad press otherwise.

Just as she pulled her eyes away from the crowd, she caught whiff of murmurs by the entrance of the building. People were gravitating towards it, following the flashes of cameras. Andy’s heart leapt all the way up to her throat and she turned around. She didn’t have to know that woman that had invaded some of her empty evenings spent staring at blank Word templates had just arrived. Something about her presence always shifted the feel of the room.

A pair of red-headed twins walked in first, dressed head to toe in Alexander Wang. The dresses they wore didn’t belong to any recent or vintage collection, custom-made pieces worth a small fortune – more than anyone with any good sense would spend. They looked older than Andy remembered and it was odd to see the two troublemakers becoming beautiful young women. Not that it should be, considering their genes.

When the twins moved away, a figure that cast everyone around her into oblivion emerged behind them. It was impossible not to feel the whole room looking at her, and Andy was no different, trying not to grip the glass in her hand to the point it would break.

Miranda was wearing a form-fitting red Valentino gown, flowing behind her like a curtain of blood, the fabric becoming like wisps of see-through as it went lower. Her black Prada pumps gave her an extra five and a half inches, and the woman stood with her strong shoulders and back straight, walking like someone that had been born from fire and brine. A simple bracelet adorned her right wrist and a small silver chain rested against the dip of her collarbones, glistening when the light hit it just right. A woman her age didn’t have any business looking the way she did. Every detail was by design. The signature short white hair curled softly, one perfect lock curling just above her manicured eyebrows. Her make-up was light, with the exact amount of bronzed peach colour on her lips to make men and women shuffle nervously out of her way. She looked ready to go to war, and Andy found herself thinking that she could conquer empires with a single look.

Throughout the crowd, Miranda’s piercing blue eyes found Nigel. And, because she was standing right next to him, she found Andy too.

The young reporter thought was going to disintegrate on the spot.

Although the thought of moving away should have invaded her mind, Andy found herself unmoving, either by her own resolve or by the look that was trying to pin her in place by the Dragon advancing towards them; her assistant, a tall Latina woman sporting a rust-golden Carolina Herrera dress, followed suit. There was no second assistant in sight.

“Nigel, darling,” Miranda said, leaning in for two air-kisses, which the man reciprocated.

“You look _beautiful_ ,” he said with utmost sincerity, but in the same tone that he expected nothing short of.

Miranda smiled politely at him. It was the same smile she always wore in public events, not one that was natural or sincere. It was void of any personal affection, but it played its part and that was all that it needed to do. She nodded and gestured over to her twins, who followed along to give “Uncle Nigel” a kiss and offered their congratulations, before they began prodding him about who among the guests was around, if Robert Patterson or Zac Efron would make an appearance.

While they talked, Miranda turned her head very slowly to Andy. The reporter felt her stomach lurch and for a second she did think that the glass in her hand was going to shatter if she gripped it any harder. She didn’t slouch. Their eyes met and Andy opened her mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came of it, words dying in her throat before she could form them. The only saving grace was she avoided the pitiful noise of someone that didn’t know what to say make its way past her lips.

“Oh, wow, you’re Miranda Priestly!”

That had not come from _her_ mouth.

Malika was back, tucking her iPhone into her clutch. Miranda was staring at that woman like she could make her disappear with a glare alone, but the senior reporter was far from being intimidated by anyone, although Andy thought she saw her almost flinch. But Malika just shoved a hand forward for a shake.

“Malika Fahim from _The New York Mirror._ A pleasure.”

Miranda pursed her lips, but made no move to take Malika’s hand. “I’m sure,” she said instead in her whispering dulcet tone.

Andy had to hold back a gasp. Her voice had been so deeply engraved in her brain that it sounded exactly like she remembered. For some reason, she was expecting her to sound different. Rougher, louder. Maybe graver. She seemed to have demanded time itself not to touch her. It was working miracles.

“Andrea,” she said and Andy almost jumped out of her skin, like she didn’t remember the way her name sounded in her mouth.

The woman was appraising her, similar to what Nigel had done earlier on, but not at all like him. She was reminded of the first time she had laid eyes on her like that, in her frumpy blue sweater and ugly shoes, and felt the sudden urge to hold a notepad and hide behind it.

“Hello, Miranda,” she finally managed to say out without stuttering. It came out more like a whisper than a greeting. She needed to steel herself. She wasn’t the bumbling fresh-out-of-college girl anymore. She was a professional. This was nothing.

So, Andy smiled at her, but the woman kept on her perfect unreadable mask. There was a moment, a flicker of a second, where she thought Miranda was looking beyond her clothes, beyond the moment they found themselves in. She felt like she couldn’t look away from her eyes, away from the sharp intensity of that deep ice blue.

It was broken forcefully by another quip from Malika and she felt like slamming an elbow in her ribs.

“Your colleague over there is very tight lipped about this whole Sean Morgan deal. Come on, Miss Priestly, you have _got_ to give me something. Are you behind the endorsement? Was it your idea? Rumour has it that the board values your opinion more than just the most successful Editor-in-Chief in Elias-Clarke. You did this, didn’t you?”

Andy wanted to _die_.

Miranda, on the other hand, remained composed and smiled at Malika the same way that she had done to Andy on the day she dared to speak the word ‘ _stuff’_ in front of her. It was very much like a red dragon smiling at the thought of dinner. And dinner was in front of her.

“I’m afraid tonight is not about my work, _Miss Fahim_ ,” the woman didn’t much care for that particular form of address, and she made sure the displeasure was subtle but indicative of it. “I wasn’t aware Nigel had invited the… _press_ to attend this event.”

The way she had said press was nothing short of saying garbage.

“Oh, he didn’t. I’m her plus one,” she stuck out a thumb over to Andy.

Yes, she _definitely_ wanted to die.

“I see,” Miranda whispered, not taking her eyes off of Malika, like she was purposefully ignoring the existence of her ex-assistant standing right there in a cerulean blue Chanel with her jaw clamped shut. The seconds seemed to take years to pass by. “Enjoy your evening. Come along, Bobbseys.”

Andy held her breath as Miranda turned, the lack of fabric on the dress showing the expanse of a toned back. Downing the rest of her punch to not look, the younger woman glanced apprehensively at Nigel, in a silent question: should she go? The man, however, only smiled gently as he patted her shoulder and moved along to shake hands with Lindsey Adler as the photographer came by.

As they walked further into the party, Andy noticed one of the twins, she wasn’t sure which, was staring at her curiously even as Miranda moved away. The piercing blues were nearly identical to the older woman’s. It was unsettling. The young girl narrowed her eyes for a second longer, before turning around to whisper to her sister. She wondered if she had recognised her.

“Holy shit,” Malika laughed, staring at Andy with an accusing look. “That’s why you never talk about Elias-Clarke. You worked for her, didn’t you?”

“Wh—“

“Oh, don’t even _try_ it, lady,” she wagged a finger. “You looked like a gazelle caught in the mouth of a crocodile. Shit, what was _that_ like?”

Andy didn’t reply, smiling sheepishly instead, and shrugged. That was a question she didn’t care to give an answer to. She stared at her empty glass and held it up as an excuse to find more alcohol to run away from the conversation that would surely ensue.

She realised that the reason she didn’t want to talk about it was because she could do so at length. Working for Miranda Priestly and surviving an unceremonious resignation had been one of the most exhilarating life experiences she had gone through, but she wouldn’t know how to justify it. She always managed to lose the eloquence she had when writing her articles when faced with the mere thought of the snowy-haired editor. It was stupid. She didn’t have to deal with this.

Seeing Miranda again had left her dazed, drawing out a nausea from the depths of her stomach. It curled around her throat and pushed down against her ribcage like a constricting weight. Andy realised her neck felt cold and clammy, like she was coming down with a fever. If she hadn’t forgotten her voice, she certainly had forgotten the effect of her presence. It had been her fault that she had destroyed the comfortable silences built with Miranda, left behind only ashes. Sitting in her car while gazing lovingly at Paris had never been oppressive, and yet, now, in a room full of people, she had never felt so isolated and alone. Miranda hadn’t destroyed her career, but it seemed she hadn’t forgiven nor forgotten. And yet, she still stood. Andy didn’t understand. The thought of not understanding Miranda Priestly left her feeling sick. Was it guilt?

She needed a moment.

Andy headed to the bathroom, closing the door with a click behind her. Two women were in there, using the mirror to reapply their already perfect make-up. She took one of the stalls, sitting on the toilet with the lid down and waited for the women to leave, before releasing the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding in. Once she heard the door close, Andy exited and stared at the reflection on the mirror. She didn’t look the way she felt, heavy eyeliner adorning her brown eyes, red lipstick and hair pulled up in a perfect elegant bun.

She gripped the edge of the counter. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Miranda still had the power to make her feel so small. It was wasn’t even three years since she had left her in the middle of Paris, since she had looked into the eyes of the Devil in Prada and said screw it. It had been more than enough time to let go of the effect the woman had on her. She had stood up to her, she could do it again. She was just caught off guard – by the way she looked, by the way she had said her name. She hadn’t heard that in so long. _Andrea_. Nobody called her that anymore.

“You’re the Harry Potter one.”

Andy screamed and jumped, turning around with a look of absolute horror. She hadn’t heard anyone come in, but one of the twins, the more freckled one, stood there with a little smile. It was easier to distinguish them by now as the twins wore their hair differently. This one had her hair longer, braided at the top and side of her head, showing the soft undercut at the sides and back.

“Jesus!”

She saw a devilish smile tug at the corner of the young girl’s lips as she walked past her to the sink to wash her hand, looking at Andy in the mirror.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, did you terrify anyone else with Harry Potter?” Andy asked with a bit of bite, trying to calm herself down. She turned around to face the girl’s eyes in the mirror, arching an eyebrow in challenge.

“Cassidy and I still laugh about it,” the girl said with a cool tone that could almost be recognizable, but Andy could see the amusement dancing in her eyes. The girl dropped the soft towel she had used to dry out her hands in the laundry basket and smiled. It was a sincere smile, soft and airy. Andy wondered if Miranda had one of those too. “Sorry we made you go upstairs. You just had that face.”

“What face?”

“That you wanted to break the rules. That you were curious. It was so easy to convince you.”

Pulling a grimace, Andy recalled that day all too well. Going up the stairs to the second floor after Emily told her not to, after being warned not to go off exploring like some intrepid idiot. She had thrown caution out the window, even after the initial hesitation. Breaking rules around Miranda seemed to be something Andy excelled at. It was her wannabe journalistic spirit. And then she had been caught red-handed, had witnessed a fight that, she figured, was nothing new. Like being called Mr. Priestly was a humiliating statement. Being eclipsed by their spouse’s accomplishments hadn’t sat well with Stephen. If she had to guess, it had driven him away, not being able to stand on equal footing with her. She couldn’t imagine it was easy, either.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say that it was all part of your evil plan.”

“Evil, but genius,” Caroline said with delight, holding a finger up; she was quite the expressive Priestly. “Cassidy only felt bad until we had the manuscript in our hands on the way to Nana’s. I wish I could claim that had been the plan all along, but we just wanted to mess with you. Mom talked about you a lot.”

Andy blinked at the girl in surprise. “Your mother talked about _me_?”

“Oh, yeah,” the girl laughed and nodded. “ _Ahn-drey-uh wore a_ dreadful _skirt today, I have no idea why I hired that girl_ ,” Caroline sounded haughty and turned up her nose, flipping an imaginary Hermès scarf around her neck. “ _Ahn-drey-uh took Patricia for a walk, I think she gave her extra treats to have her behaving so well lately. Ahn-drey-uh wore the Chanel boots today, I have no idea where she got them but I suppose not all hope is lost._ ”

Left stunned and speechless, Andy blinked repeatedly. Caroline laughed at her expression and slumped her shoulders a little, ceasing the act. It had been a remarkable impression of her mother.

“You were so different from the other assistants,” the girl confessed, not hiding her wonder. “Mom thought so. We thought you died, back in October. She just stopped talking about you after Paris,” she shrugged and almost seemed disappointed. If she was, however, it was impossible to tell. Like Miranda, the twins seemed to have learned the art of hiding their thoughts, although this one hid it with charming smiles and humour. “Anyway, I gotta go, I need to tell Cassidy she was right and ghosts are real. It _is_ the Harry Potter assistant, coming back from the dead.”

“I have a name, you know?”

“Yeah, duh. _Ahn-drey-uh_.”

She winced. “It’s Andy, actually.”

“Yeah? Okay. Sorry about the whole Harry Potter thing. You can at least sleep in peace in knowing that it was the last book. It was fun seeing you again, Andy.”

“You too,” she managed to say as Caroline opened the door, laughter from the venue sliding into the quiet space of the bathroom, and waved a hand before leaving. The door clicked shut, drowning the bathroom into silence again.

Andy stared at the mirror again, head swirling. She mussed her bangs, sliding her fingers through them to make them sit perfectly, and licked her lips, staring back at her rattled reflection. She knew the evening was going to be a rollercoaster, but nothing could have prepared her for all that was happening. Seeing Miranda was all very surreal. Nothing could possibly make the night any weirder, short of pigs flying.

Or, as she found out seconds later, something a lot less supernatural but a lot more horrifying.

On her way out of the bathroom, she bumped into a tall young man and dropped her clutch. They both bent down to pick it up and what Andy meant to say when she opened her mouth was ‘ _thank you’_ , but instead what came out was a strangled noise.

“Jason?”


	5. The Speech

“How is your career more important than mine?”

“It’s not! That’s what I’m trying to say! God, you’re _impossible_! But if we can’t prioritise, if we’re not on the same wavelength, then what’s the point?”

“What’s the point?! What’s the _point_! Oh, fuck you, Andy!” He grabbed his jacket viciously, tipping over the chair it was laying on. It clattered to the floor as he opened the door so hard it was nearly ripped out of its hinges. “Fuck _you_!”

The door slammed hard enough to make the small studio apartment rattle, enough for the frame hanging lopsided on the wall fall down face first, obscuring the picture of the once happy couple. It was taken in Central Park during the summer, you could tell by the trees behind the tall dark-haired man with splashes of grey in his beard and at his temples, big round glasses framing his strong face, and a very happy Andy grabbing him by the scarf around his neck.

Apparently, the world felt poetic.

The baby above began crying. Andy dropped heavily on the old couch, burying her head in her hands, hair falling around her face as she bit down on her lower lip. She could hear the distance footsteps of him rushing down the stairs and the door of the building slammed closed with a metallic noise. Holding back her breath, she rubbed her eyes with the tip of her fingers, pushing against her eyelids as if it could stop the headache trying to slip through them.

Their relationship had been tumultuous from the start, but it hadn’t been all bad. There were happy moments. For the last few weeks, they hadn’t talked to each other, both too busy and too tired to say anything with any meaning. It was close to sharing a bed with a stranger that was there in the morning before she had to leave to her odd hours shifts at the Mirror due to her editor’s absence as his wife’s pregnancy was nearing the end. Sometimes, Jason came back late smelling of cigarettes and gin and tonic after a long shoot. Sex wasn’t even fun anymore, instead it felt like a repetitive task, a chore that could fix all that was out of place. It couldn’t. She had started to avoid it as of late too. Too tired, a headache. They had become one of those couples a while ago, but they hadn’t wanted to admit it.

With a deep sigh, Andy leaned back on the couch and stared at the stained ceiling. The silence in the studio after the screaming match was oppressive, even with the sounds from the action film playing on the television. She glanced at it without any interest and pushed to her feet in an almost zombie state, as if she wasn’t in control of anything her limbs were doing.

She turned the kettle, observing the water bubble slowly and move through the glass of the electric appliance. There was an emptiness inside her that she couldn’t shake off. This should affect her more, this should _bother_ her more. She should be crying, or screaming, she should be texting Lily or Doug for emotional support. But it just felt like… Like something she had counted on before it had even started. Another relationship down the drain because of a clash of careers, of expectations she couldn’t meet. Every time she hit this point on a relationship, she would always call back to the day she missed Nate’s birthday, the way he had sat in the dark, sulking over a situation he should understand better. It reminded her of the hundredth date she missed because of the punitive deadlines _The Mirror_ , how she had felt on Valentine’s Day when the break-up text from that cute artist she had met through Lily popped in her notifications. _Don’t bother calling back._

Andy leaned her forehead on her hands and hissed through her teeth furiously. She understood when _they_ were busy, she knew how hard it was to make it in New York City. She never complained when Jason was late or had to cancel last minute, she didn’t bristle or throw a tantrum when she was left standing alone at a restaurant, or said anything when she didn’t even get a lame birthday card because her better half was buried under work and deadlines.

As she reached for the shelf to grab a mug – his mug, she thought with bile in her throat, staring at the faded pink hearts – a sudden burst of anger rattled in her chest and belly. Her temper got the best of her and she let out a scream, throwing the mug against the wall. Even before it shattered, she regretted it.

She looked down to the scattered pieces of cheap ceramic and frowned with a bitter thought. She wasn’t screaming because it had ended. It was because it had begun.

It would be better if she just stopped trying at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Looking like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Jason tried his boyish smile. He looked good, the grey specks at his temples less visible with a new shorter trim. His spectacles were different, silver-rimmed round glasses, and his beard was gone. He wore a Marc Jacobs coral suit with a white bowtie, his camera hanging from his shoulder against his hip.

“Andy?”

He was still holding the clutch as she grabbed it and stood there for a second longer before waking up to reality and pulling his hand back quickly like it had been burnt, wrapping his fingers against the camera’s sling.

“I wasn’t expecting— I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Why would you?” She said, her reply sharper than what she had intended it to be, but she did not to wince. He glanced away to the crowd, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “I could say the same.”

The tall man crossed his arms in front of his chest in a defensive gesture, nodding with a frown that folded a crease between his thick eyebrows.

“I mean,” he shrugged, but didn’t meet her eyes. “It makes more sense for me to be here than you.”

Andy didn’t know if that was intended as an offense or not, but she tried hard not to bristle at it, squaring her shoulders and jaw. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave her an odd look, the crease deepening and making him look like he was older than his three decades.

“I work for _Galvanize_ as a photographer. They contacted me after I did a shoot for this kid who’s an up-and-coming online star. I didn’t have anything in the near future, so I took the job.”

Just her luck, Andy thought as she tried not to show her displeasure. Regardless of how she felt about him or about the last time they had seen each other, Jason had talent. He knew how to paint a picture, not unlike a musician composed a symphony. It was tough to swallow, but she had to be the bigger person. Or, at least, that would be what her mother would tell her. She was glad her parents never actually met him outside of the odd Skype call.

“And what about you? Don’t tell me you’re going back to being the Dragon Lady’s assistant.”

“ _No,_ actually,” it left her mouth through gritted teeth, before she willed herself to relax. It wasn’t worth being like this. Whatever they had before had been over for a while, and they weren’t here trying make amends. That was a ship that had sailed even before it had started, if she was honest with herself. “I’m a friend of your Editor-in-Chief.”

“You know Nigel Kipling?”

The tone of apprehension wasn’t lost on her and she laughed it off, rolling her eyes at him.

“Oh, grow up, Jason, I’m not going to run to him and tell him to re-think hiring you.”

He glared, “What makes you think you could? Most of us are professionals who can separate work from our personal lives.”

That was a jab. Andy almost staggered back, her mouth parting open as she raised her eyebrows. If she was over it, it was clear that he wasn’t and getting into a fight in the middle of a fancy launch party was the last thing she wanted to do, especially when it was Nigel’s big break. Especially with Miranda here. She clamped her mouth shut, teeth gritted.

“ _Classy_ ,” she hissed with a glare instead, turning to leave.

“Andy—“ he called out with a twinge of regret. When she didn’t stop, Jason followed and grabbed her wrist. “Andy, wait. Wait, shit, wait. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

She glanced down at his hand around hers and tugged it back. He let it go after another tug and held his hands up like raising a white flag.

“Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s fine, Jason,” she grumbled, before taking a deep breath. When she spoke again, her tone was even and gentle. Life happened, life moved on. Where she could deal with some parts of her past coming back, she couldn’t say her ex-boyfriend was one of them; she had no interest in reigniting it. “It’s fine.”

“You look really nice.”

His blue eyes had a wetness to them that she remembered made her weak. She had to bite her tongue. He was rearing to say something else and she was sure whatever it was, it could probably have convinced her to get a drink with him. She _was_ over him, over them, but there was a selfish part of her that remembered his warmth and comfort, that she could use after the crazy evening she was having. She could hear Miranda’s voice all too clear now reverbing in her skull and she didn’t want that.

“Andrea.”

No, wait. That wasn’t her in mind. That was definitely happening in real life.

Andy whipped around herself and saw Miranda standing there with her customary flute (she would guess the single one which would last for as long as possible for the duration of the party to pretend she was having fun).  She was eyeing Jason like a hawk ready to strike down on a tiny mouse and she was sure the photographer felt like one, even if he towered both of them with his six-feet-two of height. She didn’t have to look at him to know he had flinched under that glare.

“I loathe repeating myself,” the woman said as she walked past them, right in the middle, creating a divide. “Come along.”

The demand made her blink in confusion, frowning as she glanced to the woman who hadn’t stopped to see if Andy was following, assuming her orders would be abided by like she had never left her side as an assistant. She glanced at Jason, who had settled into a paler shade. Without saying a word, she turned around and caught up with the older woman, remaining in silence as walked to the bar together.

Although the party wasn’t hers, Miranda managed to be the centre of attention. Guests would turn their heads and murmur as she passed by them. Some would nod in polite recognition, but none dared to approach her without having the proper status – an ambassador, a famous designer, the occasional high profile model. Andy felt like Alice after falling down the rabbit hole, standing next to the woman that could make a room hold its breath by just existing.

They stopped short from the bar, where Malika was chatting up with Serena glancing at her iPhone on occasion. Andy stopped just by Miranda’s side. The older woman looked slowly to her. Her heels were slightly taller than Andy’s, putting them on equal heights. The reporter opened her mouth and, for the second time that evening, she forgot all of the words in the world. Closing it with a little sigh, she tilted her head down with a shake, like she couldn’t believe what was happening.

The silence between them grew, deepening into a strange hollow void, drowning everything around them.

When Miranda spoke, her tone remained quiet and cool, a mere whisper against the loud laughter of the venue, Andy found herself understanding every word without straining to hear it, like she had never fallen out of habit of her deceptively gentle tones.

“I don’t make a habit of speaking to people who have disappointed me,” and her words cut deeper than anything Jason could have said.  Andy turned her eyes up to her, mouth slightly parted and eyebrows creasing just a small line between them. “You have made me do so _twice_ this evening alone.”

Under the scrutiny of her glare, Andy wasn’t sure what to say. She couldn’t mumble out a lame apology, she couldn’t say that she was thankful for the rescue. In fact, she couldn’t say anything at all without feeling like whatever would come out of her mouth would tip the scale further to the other woman’s side.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she settled instead with a neutral tone, not looking away from her eyes. Facing her head on. It seemed to do something, or so she thought. A flicker of a second. It was gone by the next.

“No, that has never been your strong suit, has it?”

Biting down on her tongue, she glanced back to where they had come from. In that moment, she thought facing Jason would be easier than enduring the twist of the knife each word that came out of Miranda’s mouth caused. Feeling a familiar coldness settling in the depth of her stomach and the back of her throat, Andy shook her head with an incredulous look and avoided crossing her glance with Miranda’s, instead turning her eyes to the ceiling. Not out of fear, but to still herself. She could take her on. She had done it once.

Licking her suddenly dry lips, she spoke again.

“No, I guess not,” she admitted, at loss for words. She gave a weak shrug and crossed her arms, frowning at herself.

This wasn’t how she had pictured it in her head. It was so anti-climactic. In her head, she had faced her head on, with her reasons of why she had jeopardized her career because of something the woman had said – something that Andy could see as true but wouldn’t admit it over fears of a bruised pride. She would have stood her ground. But she had no idea why she thought she could do that when the last time she had faced Miranda, it had been by running away, leaving only a single word in an envelope.

The silence stretched. Miranda stared at her like she was waiting for something, but as no words formed between them, the older woman straightened up and tilted her chin up.

“Very well,” she said. “If that’s all.”

The oxygen in her lungs seemed to vanish as Miranda brushed past her. They didn’t touch, not exactly, but the air around them moved in such a way that it felt like static. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck raised, her naked skin crawled with goosebumps. She could feel, almost taste, the perfume Miranda was wearing, mixed with the scent of her skin, and it clung to the back of her throat and to the roof of her mouth in a way that didn’t make her gag. Delicate, subtle, with a hint of something bitter, left to linger behind her teeth.

“Thank you,” the words left her mouth before she realised what she was saying.

Miranda didn’t pause, not even a slight faltering step, as she kept on walking. Andy turned her head to follow the shape of her until she was lost in the crowd. It took everything she had to not to follow, to not to ask all the questions she suddenly wanted an answer to. Like if she read _The Mirror_ because of her, if she liked her articles, if she still did the crosswords. If she had kept that letter, if she had understood that insignificant little word left behind in the handwriting of a replaceable assistant, from a disappointment that had ran away, from someone who had not deserved anything from her only to have been graced with a recommendation that had given her the chance to land where she stood. She wanted to ask if she ever thought about her too when it was late at night and sleep wouldn’t come. If she hated her. If she would still say that everyone wanted to be them.

Her stomach twisted when she remembered to breathe again.

Andy turned around sharply and headed to the bar where Malika was and smiled at her, pretending nothing had happened, and grabbed a flute of the deadly punch, throwing it back like it was a shot. Serena arched her eyebrows and laughed at the sudden enthusiasm, unaware of what had happened, and Malika was all too eager to encourage her to keep going. Avoiding thinking about it was the best solution to a problem that had no business being a problem at all, Andy thought as she went for another glass.

By the time they were sat down, Andy had lost count of the glasses she had emptied. People were taking the stage to make speeches and raise glasses to Nigel, who sat at the main table flanked by Miranda and some people of the Board. Irv Ravitz sat further away from them, looking like he was trying to pass a kidney stone every time a round of applause erupted in Nigel’s honour and, on occasion, Miranda.

Andy looked up every once in a while to them, watching the twins talking excitedly every time they would notice someone famous, or the way their mother would tilt her head to them and smile softly – the only real smile Andy had ever seen – at whatever they were saying. On one occasion, she was caught staring by Miranda, so she continued to glance around the room as if she was just doing a big swipe. She could feel her blue eyes burning into her to let her know she wasn’t buying it.

As she reached for her glass number-nobody-was-counting, Andy realised the room had fallen silent. Lifting her head up, she saw Miranda taking to the stage. She walked like she was gliding. As she stood behind the podium, she slid her glasses on her face and smiled at the room full of people ready to drink in her words. All eyes were on her, but it felt like the woman didn’t notice. She didn’t raise her voice nor hurried along, waiting, bidding her time until there were no distractions. She could command a room far too easily and it left Andy feeling almost naked.

Without even the slightest adjustment to her volume, the microphone placed in front of her struggled to pick up her words. Suddenly, out of instinct, Andy felt like running again.

“Please,” Miranda said gently to encourage the applause to die down, and her soft voice was carried throughout the silent room. She stood with a smile, the kind offered to people whose names she needed her assistants to remind her of, her eyes never lingering on one single person in the crowd.

“Thank you all for coming this evening. To a grandiose start of a new Elias-Clarke endeavour,” spaced out words and paused sentences made each and every syllable grab the attention of every single person in that room. “Nigel and I have known each other for quite a while,” the understatement made a soft chuckle vibrate through the crowd. “He has been by my side for more than a decade, both inside and outside of _Runway_. Always loyal to me, to _Runway_ and to the industry, this is a visionary who strives to outdo the best. For himself and for the _haute couture_.”

A pause to allow a small bow from Nigel and a round of applause, then she resumed like she hadn’t been interrupted.

“Nigel will be dearly missed. But the show must go on. As such, it is my pleasure to announce that after two years of studying under him, Emily Charlton will step in his place as the new Art Director.”

People clapped and Miranda nodded her head with a thin smile to the red-head, who was already a little flushed from the alcohol, but stood her ground.

“His work and his commitment to excellence have gone far and beyond. His numerous contributions to the industry often push it to the next level. If there is one person who can conquer where others have failed, it is Nigel Kipling. I know no-one better than him to lead the new voyage Elias-Clarke has embarked on.”

Miranda allowed a pregnant pause, checking her notes quietly, knowing she didn’t have to filibuster to keep everyone listening to her.

“I have been given the honour of unveiling the first official interviewee of _Galvanize_. Someone we have been working close with. Sean Morgan.”

There was a murmur and people shifted to try to see the politician, who stood up in a classic Hugo Boss suit, sat at a table in a more private corner with his wife and children. He gave a polite wave, nodding to Nigel and then to Miranda.

“I have always said that politics and fashion have too much in common,” that allowed a small chuckle from the audience, but Andy was starting to think that wasn’t a joke at all. “Elias-Clarke has been working close with the innovative movements the new government hopes to move forward in the next four years.” Irv Ravitz was shifting uncomfortably in his seat and almost disappeared when Miranda looked at him and smiled, nodding politely like it had been his idea all along. It was almost straight out of a Machiavelli work. “I’m glad _Galvanize_ has been given a marvellous model to work with.”

Malika was typing furiously on her iPhone, nudging Andy and commenting about how she was right and that this was great and that Mendoza better go grab a coffee to break this first hand. Andy wasn’t listening. Her full attention was for the snowy-haired Editor-in-Chief alone.

“The road ahead is difficult—“ Miranda had not looked at one person in the eye except when addressing them. Now, she was staring at Andy. An intense _‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this’_ nausea rushed through her. She felt like she was about to be struck down by lighting. As Miranda set her shoulders, her collarbone protruding just so, icy glare fixed on hers, she took a predatory pose, a dragon ready to unhinge her jaws to spit fire. Andy swallowed dryly. She didn’t dare to look away. She would not give the pleasure. “—but I know hard work will bring harmony where there is _dissonance_.”

The room erupted in applause.

Miranda moved her eyes slowly to Nigel and smiled her public appearance grin, clapping with her hands pointed at the man as he walked up to take to the stage. Andy remained frozen in place, unable to react as her mouth dried out. Those words – _that word_ – had not been for Nigel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter for Easter!


	6. Names Well Earned

Unable to peel her eyes away from her hands, Andy tried to keep her breathing even, but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. She could feel it rattling in her chest and throat every time she inhaled. She kept twisting one of the rings around her finger, not wanting to risk crossing her gaze with Miranda’s at the moment.

It was uncanny. The woman managed to make her angrier than any break up, than any infuriating lack of understanding she would have gotten from out of her failed relationships. Those had barely caused a dent in her state of being. Now, sitting in the ample space of the venue surrounded by lavish designs and expensive catering, she felt like storming off, to give into her temper. She was beyond livid, but she wasn’t a child anymore. She was aware that causing a scene would gain her no compassion – not that she needed it, but she could feel her heart boiling in her ears. Worst of all, she realized she didn’t want to look because she didn’t want to see the victory in her eyes. And she didn’t want to show her hand, hiding the fact that the woman could somehow still make her feel so incensed. Oh, how she wanted to prove her wrong.

She didn’t need her. She would not be like her.

The idea of having to marry her ideals with the hardships of reality had been one that had taken far too long for Andy Sachs to accept, but one she had found a compromise on by herself. However, what would often spur her towards that balanced decision was the memory of a proud, strong woman looking small and tired in her Chanel silver robe. It was how she had decided to remember to not be like them, and during a long time, she refused to accept she wanted to. To mirror Miranda, the woman arrogant enough to declare the rest of the world envious of her – of _them_.

Above all, the realization that she had been her, for a brief moment, had scared her half to death. But it had been the first time she had taste the satisfaction of control. Many times, she had tried to hide the confidence that came with making difficult choices. The rush.

Then life happened. Andy had to grow up to face the facts, that no matter what choices she would make, there would always be a sacrifice, a consequence, and the right thing to do – the only thing to do – was to accept them. Over the years that had followed, she had been faced with decisions that would advance the career of her dreams, to help her along the road. And more and more, she would find that the strain on her personal life and on her relationships was a price worth paying for. In the beginning, she would often ask herself twice before taking the plunge. As time went by, she had stopped asking. She knew the answer would always be yes.

And like in the beginning, when she refused to accept success did not come without sacrifice, as she continued to move forward, it was also Miranda who sometimes she was reminded of. But this time, not the flicker of sadness, the small window of weakness and fragility she had been privy to, but the icon that stood on the top of the food-chain, carved by self-built success and sacrifices. Neither power nor success cane without a price.

That was a lesson that had taken some time to learn, but one she didn’t forget once it was carved in her mind. She knew she had done away with some of her idealism, but not all of it. The path was still hers to forge. She would do it her way, not following the footsteps of others. Throw away people like they were only pawns, disregard friendships and relationships, there was other ways of doing it. Miranda might not want to see it, and Andy had a feeling she didn’t because she would loathe to be wrong, but it was doable. Andy didn’t need to treat people like she had treated Nigel during the James Holt International ordeal.

But, she realized, it did not make her better. It did not make her worse, either. It just was.

As Nigel wrapped up his speech, of which Andy had not heard a single word of, people stood up to their feet and clapped, creating a thunderous noise that vibrated throughout the room. She snapped out of her private musings and sat down as the other guests did, only realizing halfway that she had somehow joining in on the applause.

If the world was a righteous place, she would have gotten away with taking off unnoticed, but life was never very fair and Andy had to endure the rest of the dinner as if nothing was wrong. At a table with a bunch of nameless faces, she did very little small talk, letting Malika take the lead on conversation and only nodding when prompted or echoing a sentiment she had barely listened to or agreeing that the food was, in fact, amazing. And it was. For the reporter, who had never been shy about food, it tasted like ash. Her mouth was too dry to discern the subtle flavours of the expensive dishes being served. She had forgotten how over the top the fashion industry was, but then again, she probably shouldn’t.

By the time coffee was served, Andy’s head was spinning with the deadly punch and she felt sluggish. She wanted to go home and hit the bed and pretend nothing was wrong, that words hadn’t cut deep – that she wasn’t thinking that she had a feeling the woman thought she owed her something. Maybe she hadn’t buried her career six feet under, but that was only being a normal human being instead of an insufferable She-Dragon.

When the music became louder and faster, the lights added more colours to the venue, the staff moved a set of tables to make space for an open area. It didn’t take long for people to start dancing, emboldened by alcohol and the spirit of the party.

But, much to her chagrin, her eyes always ended up drifting to a particular table. Miranda sat talking to Nigel while her daughters came and went, enjoying mingling with people from magazines. Never once did their eyes meet. Perhaps for the better. Andy could still feel the claws wanting to come out.

At some point, she was dragged off to the dancefloor by Serena, joining in with her and Malika and a couple of others from _Runway_ and _Galvanize_. In the chaos of it all, she finally forgot about Miranda for a moment – if only because she had to duck away from Jason, which was a whole new subject.

“Who was that?” Malika asked over the music, tilting her head towards the general direction of the tall ex-boyfriend.

As an answer, Andy only groaned, and her colleague laughed, holding a hand up.

“Understood,” she said amicably, beaming a grin to Serena as she brought over another round of wine. “You’re acting weird tonight. You’re supposed to be having fun and yet you’re— I don’t know, skittish?”

“It’s nothing,” Andy lied quickly, not wanting to say anything, especially when Serena and Emily were so close. “I think I just drank too much too fast.”

“Really? I thought it had been Miranda’s speech. That woman can hold a room in a way I’ve never seen,” Malika said with a genuinely impressed look, if not this shade of surprised. “I can see what all the stories are all about by just that moment. I wonder what you have to do to get an interview out of her.”

“A deal with the Devil,” Serena joked, earning her a disapproving glare from Emily, but a semi-understanding one from Andy.

It wasn’t far from the truth. As far as she knew, Miranda was only in the public eye if it would help her advance her own agenda. Otherwise, Miranda refused, holding up her untouchable status.

Her mind had wandered again to her and Andy gritted her teeth, feeling her bile reach her throat again from a still open wound from the speech that she had delivered like a blow to the gut. Her eyes ended up drifting to the table she had been sitting with her daughters not long again and, in what could be described as mild-panic, Andy realized it had been made vacant. She whipped her head around and saw her, red dress trailing behind, heading towards the exit.

Excusing herself, Andy followed suit, the click-clack of her heels lost to the music, but her breathing loud in her ears as she allowed the righteous feeling bubbling in her chest fill her lungs with courage. She could face her head on – she had never been afraid to. If there was something she knew how to do it was to read people and it had been the best advantage back when she worked as junior assistant. She knew she could still strip her guard down with pointed words. The many scenarios ran through her head and she had the perfect response to each single one of them, every word that could come out of Miranda’s mouth.

Miranda wasn’t just some random person, of course, she was harder to read than anyone else – but Andy would never back away from challenge. She could do it again, she had to trust that she still had the ability to read the woman, to understand her. And this time around, with no cage, she could win. While she wasn’t sure what the prize was, she was going to put an end to whatever monster was taking shape between them.

Her pride had been beaten into a pulp that evening, but she wanted the last word. She had to have it. She had to prove to herself that the sudden loss of words, it had been just a moment of weakness, like she had been the one wearing the Chanel robe. Overcoming it would be easy. She was Andy Sachs. She knew what to say when she was pushed back and she wasn’t be afraid to do so.

But before she could reach her, there was a figure stepping in between her and her target. Jason, smiling with a dopey grin and bowtie loose, waved a hand at her, accidentally intercepting her trajectory. His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose.

“Hey, you.” His words were just this side of slurred. She hadn’t been the only one hitting the punch hard. “Are you leaving? I can call you a cab.”

“What? No, Jason, I—“ Andy tried to peek over his shoulders, but he was far too tall. She tried to peek around him, and he turned his head over his shoulder as if to spot to where she was looking at.

Miranda had disappeared in the crowd.

“ _Dammit_.”

“You look like you saw a ghost or somethin’” he laughed, scratching his forehead with a glass of punch in his hand. “I didn’t know you were on speaking terms with La Priestly. When did that happen?”

“It— It didn’t,” her shoulders slumped a little. Her temper still on thin ice, she felt a surge like the one back in her apartment, where she had shattered the mug – she felt like slapping the glass out of his hands for having delayed her resolve. “I’m not, I mean, we’re not— It was just—“ She had no idea how to proceed with that train wreck of a thought, so she just laughed it off and shook her head, waving her hand in front of her face. “Never mind.”

“You look real good tonight, you know?” He said, looking at her with sad blue eyes. “I’m sorry about… You know. The whole thing.”

“Uh,” caught off-guard, Andy blinked rapidly at him, feeling like this was a situation she should definitely not deal with so much alcohol swirling in her head. “I mean, it’s been a while. It’s whatever. Life happens.”

Jason snorted and pouted, crossing his arms lamely.

“It’s _whatever_?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, rolling her eyes both at him and herself. She felt warm from the alcohol and from the burst of courage she had found at the bottom of the glasses she had indulged in, and threw her hands up. “What you want me to say?”

“An apology would be nice.”

“An _apology_?” She bristled, rearing her head back like he had insulted her. She saw his lips thinning at the tone but felt nothing but justified. “You were the one that left.”

“Oh, don’t start,” he grunted, setting the glass on a solid square table or art piece, she wasn’t sure what it was. “I left because you didn’t care.”

“What— What are you _talking_ about?!”

“Andy, come on! At least admit it. You don’t give a shit, you only care about yourself, and you act all high and mighty ‘cus you’re just _so_ understanding.” He splayed his hands like he was making a joke, his tone mocking. Then, it hardened and he jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “It’s easy to be understanding when you don’t care about your partner!”

“Whoa,” Andy held up her hands, giving an empty laugh with her eyes wide and punch fuelling a sense of injustice. “I don’t care? I care! I just get it that careers are important at this stage of our lives and I never, _never_ wanted to put you in the position you put—“

“Maybe I wanted you to!” He said, interrupting her with his voice raising an octave higher. “Maybe I wanted you to tell me you were upset when I forgot our date, or when I had to cancel last minute! Maybe I wanted to hear you say you _missed_ me!”

It made her stagger back. Andy’s lips parted, like she was going to say something, but only a ragged breath came out. Worst of all, it made her think about it. Was he right, that it hadn’t bothered because she didn’t care all that much? After all, she had felt relief after the initial anger, and the anger hadn’t been over another destroyed relationship, but rather a righteous feeling of not having her career choices validated.

“I—“ Andy stammered, shaking her head. “I— I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jesus Christ, Andy.”

And before she had anything else to say, Jason leaned down and took her face in his hands, pressing a kiss to her lips.

For a moment, she remembered everything she liked about him, before realizing that what she was thinking about wasn’t him, but what he provided. She didn’t miss him, not exactly. It wasn’t his presence that had lingered. It was just the lack of warmth, company, and comfort that someone else, anyone else could give. It was a selfish thought – but Andy knew it was one that was true as well. All this time, Andy had wanted someone that could understand her, but at the lack of it, she only had wanted to have that comfort of a partner. Nate had, up until a point, been understanding. Then, when they had moved to New York, their ambitions lost their alignment. It had been a hard habit to break, but one she was beginning to understand that had to be.

Andy tensed up after half a second and pulled back, breaking off the kiss that lingered of gin and cigarettes. She didn’t know what to do, torn between being ruthless and being gentle. A look at his devastated face, and she realized all she had to do was let him go. She had yet to.

“Jason—“ her eyebrows knitted and she shook her head, resting her hands on the lapels of his coral suit. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

He gripped her hands gently with his fingers, staring into her eyes and trying to hold on to the feeling that twisted in his heart. He leaned down again anyway and kissed her and Andy didn’t push him off like she should – either because she didn’t want to hurt him or wanted to be gentle letting him down or because she liked feeling wanted was left up in the air.

Andy finally pushed him away with her hands on his lapels, keeping her eyes closed as her lips felt warm and moist from the kiss. She pushed her mouth in a straight line and sighed, before laughing softly and shook her head.

His words still playing in her head, Andy realised she had already used him once to fill the void of companionship in her life, to scare away thoughts of future loneliness from a life with a string of broken relationships and divorces, the price to pay for success. With it, came the realisation that she was willing to endure it for the sake of her career. Maybe she had been right, and that they weren’t so different. Andy wanted to separate herself from her, from the memory of her words. She had to prove to herself she would never be like that, and she wasn’t sure it that was a good thing or a bad thing anymore. If she wanted to convince herself, then she couldn’t do it again – not to him, not to anybody. Not to herself either. She had to stop before she went off the deep end.

“Goodbye, Jason.”

The exchange had taken them long enough for her to miss Miranda, standing by the door and watching them, before heading to her Mercedes-Benz.

 

* * *

 

The townhouse was silent after the initial ruckus of Cassidy and Caroline heading upstairs, talking excitedly about the launch party and the numerous A-Listers they had seen. The twins had been kept out of the spotlight for as long as Miranda could. No wonder her world fascinated them. She had never allowed them to be used as props for her public appearances – to soften her image. She was fine with the reputation she had built for herself as the Devil in Prada. Being that untouchable served her right and Miranda wouldn’t have it any other way. This was, she was able to execute to the best of her ability. She never had any intentions of being anything less than.

But now they were older, Miranda wasn’t opposed to allow a glimpse to the industry. As long as the twins proved to be focused on their careers and their studies, she would give them space to mingle. With no surprise, her diligence had resulted in Caroline and Cassidy developing different interests.

Caroline was a free spirit pulled by the Arts and, while Miranda worried about her future, she knew she would land on her feet. When it came to academia, Cassidy was much more focused. However, she had to admit that her daughter’s quietude and secretive nature reminded her of herself a bit too often. For all the successes Miranda had conquered, she sometimes wasn’t sure she would want Cassidy to become too much like her. If anything, she would prefer that Cassidy would surpass her – the only people that could do it surely would be her daughters.

The Book had been left on the table with the flowers like expected. After all, her words had not been thrown carelessly at the launch party. The show would have to go on and time did not wait for anyone. What had been less careful had been the word that had closed it.

Dissonance.

Claiming it back felt like a triumph, to deny it the power over herself. The word had not been for Nigel but instead to the woman sat at a table full of strangers, for the woman who had kept her eyes on Miranda the entire evening, like she was rearing up for something. Part of her wanted to see that fire again. She wanted to be reminded of why she had opened a door to Andrea when should have thrown away the key. It had been something she had never gifted anyone else: a second chance. Miranda wanted to know she had been right, that the woman the reporter was becoming was nothing less than what she expected her. She wanted to see the wolf she believed her to be, not the deer that the people saw.

That she hadn’t fallen too far from the path she had envisioned her to conquer on her own. If anything, for her own satisfaction of being right.

After learning about that journalist that had taken Alan Jordan’s spot, Miranda had been disappointed. Not that she thought the woman was terrible – clearly not, having been the one to blow the cover on the Elias-Clarke endorsement of Sean Morgan – but Andrea was still stuck behind a desk writing about urban fairy tales or whatever they intended with that insipid little section. They should know better, they should put her talent elsewhere. On top of everything else, that nearly made her regret her decision to keep the door open long enough.

But she would not help her; she wasn’t obliged to and she would not offer to build another step for the young woman. One second chance was all she would offer. It was more than time for Andrea to carry her shoulders straight and her chin high over the sacrifices she surely would have made so far and for the rest of her life.

If she had to guess, that tall young man who had been speaking with her had been one of those sacrifices. She must be going mad with age, Miranda thought, because she had intervened in whatever was going on. Andrea was not a child and she had, after all, stood against bigger demons – herself being the best example. She could handle the situation. Or so she thought.

Maybe she had been wrong about her all along. The image of the young woman kissing the photographer was too clear in her head. Maybe she didn’t know anything about that bright-eyed optimist. She had gotten what she had wanted from her, a recommendation letter, and it annoyed her to this day that she had given in – and in no small way, it annoyed that she could see herself doing it too.

For once in her life, she had seen someone that reminded her of what it was to build yourself up from nothing, of what she had gone through. She wanted to believe people like that still existed. If anything, she lived on hope.

She had lingered by the exit because she had felt Andrea following her. She had stood just a second longer, enough to be caught, to hear that fire again. To see it again. For some reason, she wanted to have some ex-assistant standing up to her, wanted to have her choices justified.

Instead, she had just allowed someone to disappoint her again.

Miranda closed The Book, having written nothing of value on a small pink post-it note. She sighed and leaned back on her seat, rubbing her forehead tiredly. It was pointless to entertain those thoughts and she was better than that.

She was on top of the food chain, she had worked all her life for that. She had her daughters, who would soon leave to build their own paths. She had never regretted anything once, not what she had done to achieve her status. She was proud of her work, choices, and sacrifices. Most had been hard and misunderstood, but waiting for permission had never been Miranda Priestly’s motto. She didn’t wait for anything or anyone to take what she wanted, and she didn’t ask for forgiveness either.

But if she was honest, there would always be a void, a flicker of sadness, that in all she had created, there were only a handful of people that understood her. She thought her ex-assistant was one of the few that had. She had wanted it, she had seen her in those absurd doe eyes, in her fire, and Andrea had provided in one small, fleeting moment, that quiet understanding when she needed it the most.

It all went back to Andrea. She had needed her to do her job. Assistants were replaceable. That kind of understanding was not.

Miranda left the study to go up the steps to her master bedroom, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floors. Down the hall, the twins were silent, already asleep. The door of her room clicked shut.

She couldn’t stop Andrea from making mistakes, nor would she. The young woman had not proven herself worth the effort, like she had hoped. She always did, anyway. Perhaps the thought of a diamond in a rough had been much to ask for. Miranda Priestly did not regret her decisions, she refused to do so. Her empire had not been built on mistakes, but calculated steps. Unfortunately, she had been forced to admit there was disappointment in that one choice. If she had left her stranded after that little stunt in Paris, if she had been the ruthless Devil in Prada, maybe Andrea would have understood better the meaning of sacrifices made in the name of hard work.

As she put on her nightgown, a vicious thought scratched just behind the surface, prodding intrusive. It soon began to take form, twisted into a scheme that she could use to conquer. She smiled a little to herself as she looked back at her reflection on the mirror, pulling the make-up off her face delicately.

She would give reason to all the names she had earned throughout her career.

 


	7. The Sicilian Dragon

The breakneck rhythm of the newsroom was something Andy had grown used to and even enjoyed over the years working at _The Mirror_ , but she didn’t think she had ever seen the office move as fast or as crazy as that day. A row of recent layoffs had left everyone with no choice but to stay and punch in extra hours without pay. Every member of staff was buried under phone calls and work and picking up whatever they could to keep the publication going. Greg Hill was so furious about the sudden change that Andy had heard him scream to his superiors about a “ _spineless fucking decision of money grabbing motherfu_ —” when she was on her way to the basement to help Malika with the article on the recent 20th District polls.

With the day she had being so hectic, she didn’t have the time to think about anything but the last minute editorials. The fact that it was launch day only hit her when she was on her way home from work, taking the bus with the faster route, the one that went near the Elias-Clarke building. She glanced up, and the lights of the _Runway_ offices were mostly off – except the one in an office she remembered all too well. Probably some assistant waiting for The Book. The thought of that made a shiver ran up her spine and she averted her eyes, staring at her iPod with Bon Iver’s _Blood Bank_ blasting in her ears at full volume.

The kiosk nearby her studio flat had _Galvanize’s_ first issue front and centre on the window display and even if it wasn’t, it would have been hard to miss. The glossy cover was easy to spot, all cyan blue that made it stand out among the other, already a hint to the more _risqué_ approach it had decided to take, its name written in a large, blocky font. Clearly meant to knock the competition out of the water, it had not pulled its punches. Sean Morgan was on the cover in a beautiful Armani three piece suit and the headlines were bold and eye-catching. Nigel had told her he was going in hard, he was going in to win and conquer and it showed. She went in for a pack of gums and the magazine.

Sitting on the tall chair at the counter of the kitchenette, Andy mindlessly placed her usual order for Thai food, not having the strength of mind to browse through whatever new cuisine New York’s cheap online takeaway market had decided to butcher this evening. Pouring herself a glass of white wine, she thumbed through the pages of the magazine, only paying half mind to it. She was exhausted, it wasn’t the fault of the issue itself.

She leaned her forehead on her hand and stared at the pages of _Galvanize_ without focusing. The double spread of Sean Morgan was nothing but a chess move, talking about the great work Elias-Clarke was doing for this generation of graduates and the efforts put forward into hiring fresh out of college students into a competitive market to offer real-world experience in the work force. How it had been an amazing experience to talk at length about the future of New York City with one of the most influential women in the industry.

That little passage shook her out of her numb state, staring in surprise at a close up of Mr. Morgan’s all-American smile, but it wasn’t him that she could picture in her mind. A clear image of Miranda, in her red Valentino, oozing grace and power, did. She could see the woman calculating her every move. It had been something she had learned to do, to read Miranda, back when she was working for _Runway._ Andy could hear her voice, she could cut glass with the vivid memory of her velvety tones.

Her thoughts fluttered elsewhere, to the party, still fresh in her mind. She could replay a particular scene, beat by beat. Andy wondered for how long she had been planning this particular move. The absolute genius of it, to empower herself not only through fashion, but through politics, through support of a candidate that could make it or break it. She allowed a shiver rip through her spine.

Andy thought she knew all that she was capable of. But she realised now she had barely scratched the surface of Miranda Priestly. She really made justice to her all her titles. She would stop at nothing to get what she wanted and it was absurd that Andy had to even be reminded of that. Like she could forget Paris. Like she could forget the panic her words had drilled in her. _I see myself in you_ , she had said. And Andy was ambitious, but she never wanted that responsibility. She would rather disappoint her then and there than try to prove herself worth of that comment, which to this day she had yet to decide if it was an insult or a compliment.

Rubbing her forehead with increasing frustration, Andy threw back the rest of the wine and refilled her glass. Her chair scrapped against the floor as she stood up to sit by the tiny corner of the window, watching the streets below. She remembered everything all too well. Her time at _Runway_ , from beginning to end, and it hadn’t slipped her mind that in less than two weeks, it would be the third anniversary of her time there. She didn’t know why they were such vivid memories. They had been important lessons that she had learned and applied in her professional ethic, but had they really been so formative? As her lips touched the glass, she felt a sudden repulsive urge to bite down on it, only to stop herself from answering that question.

She knew why she remembered everything, she just didn’t want to say it – not to herself. That would be admitting defeat.

Andy had no right to complain, but neither had _she_ the right to walk back in and intrude herself in her life. Drive in the knife again. It had been over two years ago Andy had left her stranded in Paris. The woman should have moved on by now. She was barely a blip in her radar – and as soon as that thought came around, she could barely swallow her own lie. Yeah, right, a blip on her radar. A blip she was following by reading _The Mirror_ on a daily basis.

For almost two years, thoughts of _Runway_ barely made it to her head. In the early months, when she passed by the Elias-Clarke building, she did think about it. She found herself lingering on some days. Then, one day after seeing the silver Mercedes-Benz parked at the entrance, she had panicked and decided to get a different stop and take the long walk to her new job to avoid the Elias-Clarke street.

She didn’t even want to think about how much of a coward move that had been.

Andy had avoided thoughts of that particular phase in her life for a long time, or rather, for the better part of the past years. All it had taken was an impulsive reconnection and now it was almost all that she could think about in her free time.

 “Christ,” she muttered to herself under her breath.

Thankfully, she was put out of her mercy by the noise of a red Honda bike’s engine made from all the way down her street. Food always did help her jumbled thoughts.

Why did she ever think a fashion magazine was a good place when her longest and most stable relationship in her life was with carbs?

Midnight snuck up on her as she glanced at the clock on the wall from her crappy sofa. She had moved to enjoy her dinner away from vile _Runway_ thoughts. The volume of the black and white film playing on television was not loud enough to muffle the rhythmic _thump-thump_ of her upstairs neighbours. She laughed a little to herself to ignore the sting of tiredness that the rowdy sound would provide in the morning and grabbed her takeaway box to throw it in the bin.

She glanced over the open pages of _Galvanize_ left on the counter. It had flopped over to the _Editor’s Letters_ section and she smiled as Nigel’s elegant face in black and white with a brush stroke of cyan Photoshopped across his eyes stared back at her. She turned it around as she finished the rest of the wine.

Her smile turned a little rueful at a particular passage.

 

> _“I think people underestimate the power and influence fashion has in our lives. Fashion is not just about the clothes we wear, it is about the statement they make – and that we, subsequently, make. Throughout my years in the industry, I have learnt to see the world through different lenses. I will not claim to be on the same level, but much of that has been passed on to me from my mentor and friend, Miranda Priestly. This issue is dedicated to her. Our relationship has suffered much through the years, but our friendship remains intact. Like a rollercoaster, it has had its up and downs, but in the end, it is what you take from a relationship that matters the most, not one individual moment. You can’t pass judgement if you don’t have the whole picture. But I digress. Miranda has led me to understand more about fashion and the world and by observing her, I have always wanted to be better. Fashion is all about the subtle conquest of your own identity. And that is why Galvanize is unlike anything on the market [...]”_

 

Andy snorted as she closed the magazine a little angrily. Subtle conquest? Yeah, that fit the _modus operandi_ of Miranda Priestly all too well. She was sure that her tactic involved conquering without being noticed until you were bowing down.

She fell asleep trying not to think of anything, but dreamt of cerulean blue. It wasn’t restful and nowhere near enough hours of sleep and she ended up waking up earlier than she needed to. Considering the work she had yet to do, she decided to stop trying to fall asleep and instead left her studio to head to _The Mirror_ offices – she was one of the first reporters to get there but only one of many that looked exhausted and overworked.

Sat on her desk across Joel’s, a stack of papers on one side and a laptop on the other, she had her eyes set on the second screen in front of her, opening yet another tab as she cross-referenced some research. She barely moved from her spot unless it was to pour herself some terrible filter coffee that she had to dump too much sugar in. A little after lunch, or rather, a sandwich eaten over a napkin, Greg walked in furiously with his glasses pushed on top of his head and slammed the door of his office so hard it had bounced off before it shut.

“Fucking hell,” Joel muttered in his thick Chicago accent under his breath, looking over his shoulder to Greg’s office. He glanced worriedly at Andy, who lifted her head up to find his panicky stare and followed his brown eyes towards the office. The door was still closed, but the yelling was so loud she could distinctly catch loose words. None of them were very nice.

“I wonder what’s going on.”

“Beats me,” Andy said through gritted teeth. The past week had been a mess, with the layoffs and increased workload, and nobody in _The Mirror_ seemed to have had any sleep and they probably wouldn’t be able in the next, oh say, ten-thousand years. By Andy’s calculations. “He can’t be happy about this.”

“Is he ever?” the Sports junior asked with a timbre that was close to whining, exasperation clear on his face. They both had narrowly avoided the row of people getting sacked somehow, but everyone was struggling. Hours earlier, he had stared at Andy in a silent cry for help when Clancy dumped all the leftover stories from the Entertainment desk after another reporter had handed in her resignation. Joel had no idea what to do with the _‘Top Ten New York Celebs’_ list.

The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up without stopping typing with one hand. She tucked the handle against her ear and shoulder.

“Sachs,” she answered as she checked the other tab to cross-reference a quote. Under all the work she was doing, she had managed to get a handful of boring articles of the Politics desk. It was the one silver lining amidst the situation.

 _“Andy, dear. I hope I’m not interrupting.”_ said a sweet voice on the other side, making her smile a little. She straightened up and paid more attention.

“Hey, Dolores. What’s up?”

_“I was wondering if I could take you up on your offer.”_

Andy had almost forgotten her stupid blurt a few weeks ago to the woman. She blinked, stopped writing and stared at her screen. “Uh—”

 _“We have all been swapped lately, so I’ve had to take over other sections. I’m stuck on next Friday’s edition, I have no idea where to start,”_ she laughed a little. _“So, shoot me a word. Sometimes it helps.”_

Caught off guard, Andy closed and opened her mouth like a fish out of water. Then, crystal-clear, Emily’s words came to mind, trampled by the memory of a red Valentino and dulcet tones.

“Retaliation,” she said before she knew what she was doing.

Dolores gave another laugh, this time a little surprised. _“Well, isn’t that thematic! Thank you, dear, I think I’m going to be calling you more often. You sure are an inspiration.”_

“Yeah, you too.” Andy mumbled as she felt a weird knot in her belly creep up on her, and Dolores hung up. She gulped and put the phone down, staring at the keyboard for a second.

What was she worried about? It wasn’t like _she_ would figure out what had just happened. She shook her head and snorted in a scoff at herself. Sleep deprivation really was starting to get to her and she needed to focus. Pulling the latest numbers on New York’s unemployment rate, she went back to her article.

The extra hours that the new rhythm of her workplace demanded left little time for socialising and sleeping. She managed to talk to her parents on Saturday and grabbed a coffee with Doug and Lily in between double shifts on a Sunday, but otherwise she spent most of her waking hours either in her commute or at work. She kept close to Malika to try to get as many leftovers of U.S. Politics, regardless of how droll they were, while piling up Life Stories, which had lost a full page and had to be massively edited to fit the allotted space. She was also busy helping Joel with Entertainment news – but she gave him a firm _no_ when he asked for help with Obituaries. On occasion, Dolores would ring her desk up and ask for words, or ask her if she knew what _mawkish_ meant, or _ebullient_ , or whatever she was looking up. It was a welcomed distraction from boring research and analysing data. She figured the woman sometimes just needed to hear another voice. Everyone had less time to say hello nowadays. She didn’t mind, it was fun, and she had taken a small amount of delight in suggesting words.

Greg Hill increasing infuriating mood made everyone stressed. The layoffs had slowed after that first week, but the workload was still intense. Andy was stretching herself thin but she was using this opportunity to push her ambitions and kept her eye on the Politics desk. Reduced to three senior members, Andy knew they needed someone to help them out and she often volunteered.

“Hey, you doin’ anything this Friday?” Joel asked, rubbing his tired eyes as he wrote something about Kirsten Dunst and her testifying against some robber from Manhattan. The evident pain on the junior reporter’s face every time he had to write about celebrity gossip was somewhat amusing. With the Sports team relatively intact, considering the seniority of their members, he was doomed to hop from desk to desk.

“I’ve got this weekend off,” Andy said as she finished her story about a local woman who went around New York and distributed clothing she made herself to the homeless. She didn’t take her eyes off the screen as she kept typing. “I think I’m going to hibernate.”

Joel snorted and sighed, nodding, “Yeah, I feel you.” He frowned at his screen and tilted his head back again to stare at her for a moment, then clicked his tongue. He scratched the back of his curly red hair awkwardly. “Huh, hey, you think they gonna lay off more people?”

The question, which she had not expected, made her break concentration. She blinked and frowned at her screen, before tilting her head to meet his eyes.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I hope not.”

Just as she finished saying it, Greg came out of his office with his eyes wide and his hair looking like it needed to stop being pulled on, sticking at the temples. Andy thought it was greyer now than a week ago and he hadn’t shaved in a while, looking worse for wear. His tie was loose, and his hands on his hips gripped so tightly that Andy thought maybe he was applying pressure to a wound.

“Okay, listen up!” He roared in his no-bullshit tone, clearly without any patience for small talk.

Everyone in the room looked at each other almost worriedly, gathering around him. Andy exchanged looks with Malika across the room and the woman shrugged. She walked over to her and leaned against her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. Her head tilted to her.

“What’s going on? Are we shutting down?”

“No idea,” Malika said with a shrug, frowning as people gathered around the room quieted down so that Greg could speak.

“I’m sorry for having to have kept you guys in the dark, but Upper Management has been wrangling my balls like they’re trying out for some kinda circus act,” he said in a grumble, eliciting some nervous laughter, the kind you chuckle out when you’re not sure if it’s a joke. It was always hit or miss with him. “But we’ve finalised some stuff and I’ve cut a deal with ‘em. Nobody else’s getting fired under my watch. The downside is that any upcoming promotions are going to have to be put on hold and obviously there’s no way I can give any raises anytime soon. But I wanna be clear: this is _temporary_. It’s the best I could do.”

People nodded and there was a general feeling of relief. Andy, however, felt a sting of injustice in her belly much to her selfish dismay. With promotions being put on hold, it meant that she was still stuck under at her desk, doing the same job with double the amount of work for the same pay. On the other hand, they could all relax about being left unemployed. Times were not kind of those without a job.

“If this isn’t up to your standards, I won’t hold it against you. Just shoot me an e-mail, come to my office, and I’ll fire you on the spot so you don’t gotta go around the whole monthly contract and shit. I’m here for you guys, not the cocksuckers that are selling us out.”

There was a moment of silence where everyone held their breath. Not because of the strong language, that was Greg in a nutshell, but because of what he was saying. _The Mirror_ wasn’t the most prestigious of publications, not even on a local level, but it always maintained a degree of old school integrity that Greg Hill was proud of. Hearing him say that made most people’s skin crawl. There was an unspoken understanding among every member of staff that it was that very “old school integrity” that they were all proud to uphold and carried out in their work.

“I’m not gonna sugar coat it. We’ve had our top advertisement investors pull back a lot. A _lot_. They’ve cut the budget, and we’re probably gonna have to pull back our print numbers. They were looking at other options and the only one I could force them to settle with was partner up _The Mirror_ with another publication. In short, sell a share to them and let them take the cost of the print numbers. All I could do was to make sure that we didn’t fall under some bullshit company that would make us compromise our quality. I can’t stop what’s happening, but I’m here to protect you people,” he pointed at nobody in particular. “So, yeah, there are gonna be changes soon. I just want to make sure you know what’s going to happen. My door’s always open for you guys.”

There was a soft murmur and people looking at each other. Greg looked tired, but he stood with his shoulders square and tall. He meant each word. Andy bit her lip and straightened up.

“So, uh— who’s buying us? Do we get to know?”

“Good question, Sachs,” he gave her a nod of his head and smoothed his hair, pulling his glasses back on his face. “Oh, wait, before I forget, we are going to have to move offices in mid-April, because that’s when the merging officially begins. Hey, don’t give me that look, Eddie, we’re not moving to the other side of town, it’s close by, but we need a different space and close to the new company’s headquarters, plus we’re going to be integrated in part of this new Graduate Experience program—“

“Greg! Who’s buying us?” Clancy chimed in, pulling the ranting Editor back to reality – he had the habit of doing it.

“Oh, yeah, right—” Greg shook his head at himself. “Elias-Clarke.”

The entirety of the room spiralled out of control and Andy was sure that the floor underneath her feet had been pulled into oblivion. Her hands gripped on the surface of the desk so hard she almost drew nail marks on the cheap wood. Every single muscle of her body tensed, her lungs seemed to stiffen and fill with cement and her throat refused to work for a second that felt like an hour. When she swallowed, her stiff jaw hurt and she was staring at Greg like he was a ghost, but he wasn’t looking at her. Nobody was, because he was saying something important about– honestly, she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all because she was probably asleep at her desk. She must have collapsed from exhaustion and was having a vivid nightmare.

She felt an elbow dig in her ribs and blinked. Well, it wasn’t a pinch, but it was real enough to make her realize that this wasn’t a nightmare. Blinking her big eyes, Andy turned her head to Malika, who was frowning at her with a worried expression.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Y– Yeah. Yeah, I’m– I’m fine, I just felt a sudden nausea.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Huh.” Malika gave her a look, one that dialled in a healthy amount of disbelief, but didn’t say anything. “If you say so. It’s good news, though. We get to keep our jobs and I get to run you dry with extra assignments from my desk.”

“Ah, right,” she forced a smile and turned her head again to Greg, who was talking to Eddie about something regarding the new offices and accommodation and whatever.

Andy never believed in coincidences. When things sounded too perfect, when puzzles fitted too neatly, it usually meant there was a hand moving around pieces behind the scenes, not some out of nowhere coincidence. And this was exactly that, a puzzle that was too neat. And there was no way she would allow herself to believe this was anything less than something planned. It had to be – how else would she explain _Elias-Clarke_ to be the one taking over _The Mirror_? She couldn’t, of course, place the blame of the loss of ad revenue on the woman she had the feeling was behind all of this, although part of her wouldn’t be surprised if it had been her.

Blinking hard, Andy stared out the window. The chatter around her was starting to sound like the adults in _Charlie Brown_ , just a _‘mawp mawp mawp’_ kind of sound. Malika said something else with laughter, patting her shoulder before moving away to go do some work. Considering she was the newest member, the woman was probably the least worried or affected about this move.

Andy followed her figure as she reached over to Eddie to get his opinion on an article. Maybe it was _her_ fault. After all, she had broken the Sean Morgan story. Maybe Miranda was so draconian that she would go down this path to burn the woman alive.

That was a selfishly naïve thought.

Outside, it wasn’t raining, but the sky was grey, cold, the wind blowing between buildings unkindly. She thought the ice that was spreading through her stomach was colder. She had no idea what the woman wanted, not with the paper, not with her, but she was rearing up to something. She knew that much.

Andy didn’t believe in coincidences, nor was she superstitious, but she was starting to think that maybe Friday the 13th had some ring of truth to it.

When her shift ended, she called up Doug and Lily to meet for drink. She needed to drown out the voice in the back of her head. Joel joined in and they went out to some bar in some place – she didn’t remember very much. In fact, Andy had no recollection of falling asleep. She had, though, and possibly as soon as her face hit the sofa. Her neck stung even before she woke up and she groaned in pain, pulling a slugging hand around the sore muscle. That was an awkward position she had fallen asleep on, one shoe off and pants only half-way done.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly and pushed herself to a sitting position, smoothing a hand over the messy tangle of hair half out of its bun.

The whirlwind of emotions after the announcement Elias-Clarke was going to become the new publisher of _The Mirror_ had not settled in yet. Not even meeting with the solid excuse to spending obnoxious amounts of dollars in drinks for escaping unemployment had helped. Her strategy had failed.

She clicked her tongue against the dry mouth, and winced. That was a tequila and gin after taste. It tasted like regret. She pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned one more time, kicking off the remaining shoe to the floor.

“Damn, Sachs, you’re a rough sleeper.”

Andy jumped ten feet into the air and fell off the sofa, gripping at it as she stared wide-eyed to Joel. The younger man had his curly hair sticking in every possible angle, wearing a white undershirt that should belong to an old man’s closet, his cheap shirt unbuttoned and belt undone. She felt a stomach drop and the thought likely manifested in her face because Joel laughed and held a hand up.

“C’mon, think better of me.”

“Jesus,” she huffed, pushing herself up to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t let me go home ‘cus I live too far away and you thought I was gonna get stabbed,” he laughed and pointed at the stove. “Eggs and coffee?”

“Uh? Oh. Yeah.”

“Anyway, yeah, you also threatened to beat me up if I didn’t take the bed. Drunk Andy is a very violent but gracious host.” He started to shuffle through her mini fridge and made a pitiful noise. “Fucking hell, Sachs, how do you live like this?”

“I don’t cook much,” she mumbled as she shuffled over to the small bathroom to get herself more awake.

“Clearly!” He called out from the other side of the door. She could hear him move about the kitchenette, and not too soon after some sizzling began.

When she came out, having changed to weekend clothes, he smiled at her as he scrambled the eggs on a small frying pan.

“Did you have fun?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” he grinned back to her and flipped over the eggs. Andy moved over to the tight space to start making some much needed coffee. “Anyway, thanks for letting me stay, your commute is about twenty minutes shorter than mine. I need to get into the office, I’m pulling extra hours. I’m like, one step above unpaid intern at this point. What a fucking mess, uh? This whole Elias-Clarke shit.”

“Yeah,” she said distantly, not really paying attention. The Advil was taking its time to fight off the small headache. She stared at the kettle bubbling water, grinding her teeth and tapping her fingers on the counter. What a mess, indeed.

“Maybe it’s good, who knows? I’m not optimistic, but at least I wasn’t thrown out.” He groaned and looked over his shoulder to Andy. She was staring off to the middle of nowhere, but it wasn’t a hungover type of distant gaze. It was a pensive one, one he had grown accustomed to see her pretty face scrunch up into when she was away in Andy-zone. “You worried ‘bout something?”

Andy just shrugged in response and he gave her a little rueful smile, turning to the eggs. She didn’t have bread, she barely had anything, so they would have to go untoasted. Truly an abomination. But he shouldn’t be too surprised. Barely anybody in their age range had their shit together, no matter how much TV lied about the wild and rich lives of mid-to-late twenties.

“You’ll be fine. I mean, you’re doing fucking amazing with Fahim, I heard Mendoza the other day joke around to say that he was gonna kick her out to get you in the role,” he grinned and shouldered her gently.

“Yeah, that’ll be the day. With this new path, I’m not sure _any_ of us are going to move roles anytime soon.”

“No, yeah, I guess not.” He stared at the eggs, before looking around. There were a couple of washed plates resting on the sink and he took those, splitting the eggs between them. “Man, if anyone should have any insights, it’s you, yeah? Didn’t you used to work for them back in ’06?”

Andy spun around on her heels to stare at him, giving him a frown.

“How do you know that?”

He had a knowing grin plastered on, like he was ready for the question.

“My cousin Jean was hired as a second assistant around the same time you quit, or got fired, or whatever. Never got the story. She used to work at _Auto Universe_ , before getting the call back.”

“Small world,” Andy grumbled, pouring hot water into the filter of the French press. “How long did she last?”

Joel laughed, “About a month? She had to quit before she got a nervous breakdown. I only heard horror stories about the Devil in Prada and her first assistant who told her she had some big shoes to fill,” he glanced at her with thinly-veiled curiosity and Andy rolled her eyes. “C’mon, I’m cooking you breakfast. How was it?”

She made a small sound in the back of her throat to let him know she acknowledged his question, but had to think about it. Not because she didn’t know, but rather because she never could put it in words. She could easily lie, of course, she could do a copy and paste Yelp review of working under the most demanding Editor-In-Chief of New York, if not the whole of America, and say that she learned how to survive a dog eats dog world because of her. But then it would be so far from the truth – how could she put into words that under Miranda, she learned how to become a better professional, that she had discovered parts of her she didn’t even knew were there. That her ambition and confidence had grown tenfold because of all the insane tasks she was made to do and that she knew why a million girls would kill to be in her shoes, but only a small handful would be able to do what she did. Because everyone wanted to be them, but not everyone could.

“It was… an experience,” she decided after a while with a wince, pouring hot coffee in two mugs.

“Wow, you’re eloquent in the morning, uh?” Joel snorted, setting the plate in front of her. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about her. I mean, it’s not like we are gonna work under her, she’s got her whole fashion empire to worry about—“ he pointed between the two of them, taking the mug with a thankful nod. “Lowly reporters.”

“Aren’t you working in the Entertainment section now too?” Andy raised her eyebrows and Joel winced.

“Save me, Sachs.”

Andy laughed and shoved some food into her mouth, swerving a hard left as she chose another topic of choice to keep him distracted. While they had a relatively friendly relationship, it was mostly kept within the office. They had exchange only had a handful of conversations that weren’t about work next to the water cooler. So, he told her about Chicago and having moved here to study at City University, and decided to remain because of his best friend needing him to room together to not get kicked out. He had three older sisters and was an uncle twice, and had broken up with his girlfriend about three months ago, because she didn’t feel comfortable with him being into guys too.

Andy nearly choked on her eggs.

“Sorry, too much information?” Joel grinned, arching his bushy eyebrows.

“I just wasn’t expecting—“

“Nah, it’s fine, most people aren’t expecting it.” He waved her off with a friendly hand, scooping a mouthful of eggs and chewing slowly. “It’s the whole Chicago tough guy accent and being super into Sports, isn’t it?” He joked to try to make her feel less embarrassed, clearly unbothered by the situation. “We’re not all stereotypes. I mean, it’s not like I would have thought you were either—“

“What?” Andy interjected, not insulted but deeply surprised. Her eyebrows shot up. No way cousin Jean had told him about that one time in college. “What are you talking about?”

Joel blinked, and seemed surprised by her reaction. “I mean, you and Malika—“

“Me and who!”

This time, he blushed and mumbled into his eggs something that Andy didn’t quite catch, so she gave him the appropriate ‘ _explain yourself, young man’_ face, a technique that she had perfected by observing her mother during Christmas as she admonished her sister Jill’s husband.

“Sorry, I just thought—I don’t know, you guys are always together and she is like, super nice to you—“

“Totally not!”

He raised his hands in mock surrender and waved his fork over lazily, “I don’t care what you are, free country, all that. But I have shared a lot. Your turn.”

“You’re sneaky.”

“I’m a reporter,” he flashed a toothy grin.

Andy made a defeated sound in the back of her throat and rolled her eyes, taking the mug of coffee between her fingers. The eggs and the Advil were working miracles on her hangover. She could barely feel it. Maybe it had been Joel’s plan all along, to lull her into that sense of safety. She had already fallen for it.

“Oh, alright,” she said in resignation. She took a moment to gather her thoughts only to realise she couldn’t really put them into words, not how she usually would wove words on articles. It was always a difficult subject.

“I got lucky,” she finally relented, tracing her fingers around the rim of the mug. “I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t belong there at first. I thought I was better than it. Above it,” she glanced to Joel a little ashamed, and smiled. “It is easy to underestimate that world.”

“But you survived.”

“I did,” she laughed. “I did, and I learned a lot of lessons that I carry with me to this day. Don’t get me wrong, Miranda is no less than what people say – tough, ruthless. But she is above all a professional. If she was a man, everything people say about her would be in the form of praise.”

“Double standards even in that industry, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I guess I just realised too late how valuable everything I learned was. I screwed up bad enough to not to be able to return to Elias-Clarke.”

“What happened?”

“Hm, long story short, I quit unprofessionally,” she shrugged sheepishly and sipped the coffee, ignoring the poignant stare from her colleague.

She had no idea why she was telling him all of this, but she supposed it was easier to talk to a third party than to any of those that had been around that time. Like she would be free of the judgement she knew she deserved to a point.

“Anyway, my time there helped me become the professional I am now. So I guess in the end, I did belong to that world. Only in a way I wasn’t expecting. I don’t think there is anyone quite like her. I should count myself lucky to have landed that job. She… taught me many things I only realised much later. At the time I wasn’t ready to hear… To see that. It’s hard to face the truth when you don’t want to admit your failings.” That had been another lesson learned. “If I could turn back time, I would want my time at _Runway_ to remain untouched. I would not take back one second.”

Well, maybe _one_ second in Paris.

Joel remained silent for a while, looking at her while holding the mug against his lips. He had a look to him that she found uncomfortable, like he was seeing through her – she didn’t know what he was seeing either. Then, he laughed and shook his head.

“You’re a very earnest person when you’re hung over, Sachs.”

“Oh, shut up! Aren’t you late anyway?”

“Ah, shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your comments & kudos so far! I am going on holiday tonight, so no updates for the next two weeks.


	8. Arriving Siege

Miranda Priestly would never admit it, but had a doe eyed idealist not crossed paths with hers, the idea of taking over _The New York Mirror_ was not one that would have crossed her mind.

It did fit perfectly with her plans, like an irritating puzzle piece that had been hiding under the box all along. It was just this side of unbelievable that the ex-assistant had given her an opening to push forward with her moves – and this time, she wasn’t even working for her.

Of course, the Editor-in-Chief would rather drink cheap vinegar than admitting to it.

The point was, the paper was losing ad revenue with sponsors pulling back to diverge into online media and publications with bigger audiences. Stuck to Hill’s romanticized idealism of outdated journalism, _The_ _Mirror_ struggled to keep up with the shift to digital. It was sinking fast in the market of an age where the consumer needed information to be immediate. It had been an easy sell to the board, with the first financial quarter closing with outstanding numbers from both _Runaway_ and _Galvanize_ , and the worrying drop of _Auto Universe._ All she had to do was whisper in Sean Morgan’s ear until the idea felt like his – a new venue to test out the promised graduate program without impacting the established publications. A new endeavour, right on the heels of _Galvanize_ , was a risk, but a calculated one.

Besides, it was a smart tactical decision to have a more politic-focused publication, considering their new and open investment in the Democratic candidate. It had not been something done to sway votes – regardless of outdated and romanticised notions journalism, the integrity of a paper was still important. All that it had been for was to keep him and his winning smile on the spotlight. Miranda knew all too well it was more important to keep the public talking than to give an in-depth analysis of the proposals for the new economic stimulus. American politics were all about the show. And she knew to put a show better than anyone.

The move had been quick and swift, served right under Irv Ravitz’s nose. He hadn’t seen it coming. With no time to prepare a counter-argument, he had had to concede victory. With it, he had cemented her position while diminishing his.

Over the last couple of years, Irv Ravitz had tried harder and harder to push her out of board meetings, overlapping her schedules with theirs. The more he tried, the more it invited her to terrorize him. Miranda Priestly was a woman that got what she wanted, and what she wanted was to be in absolute control. On rare occasions, she would allow people of her small trust circle to do so, but loyalty was hard to come by these days.

The last time he had pulled one of his stunts had been when she was in London for Fashion Week. He had made the decision to drop one of her hand-picked sponsors for _Runway_ , taking the spot for one of his favours. Something about a new and tacky line of jewellery spearheaded by Teddington’s new wife, or sister of a wife, or whatever nepotistic indulgence he had going on now. That had made her resolve to show him the door out set in stone. It had been his mistake to touch _Runway._

Until Irv Ravitz was eradicated from the publishing industry, she would stop at nothing.

Sean Morgan had been a perfect find – charismatic and young, the All-American poster boy that could indulge even the most conservative-leaning shareholder. It was easy to find the proper strings to pull on to make him move the way she wanted.  Truth be told, she didn’t think he could hold office for long, but she didn’t need him to. All she wanted from him was to take the special election, which was proving to be a neck-to-neck race she didn’t much care much for. It wasn’t like she was reaching for the stars, but nobody seemed to be on top of it. It was grating. She could push him there, if only with a minimal margin, but not with the level of incompetence that had decided to hover around her as of late. Thankfully, the interview on the charming politician published by the first issue of _Galvanize_ had been masterful and Ravitz had been left gritting his teeth when one of the polling studies reported a 3% margin to the Democratic side.

Everything was going according to plan. Miranda was in total control. Irv Ravitz was soon be backed into a corner. It wouldn’t take her long to put the final nail in his coffin, although prolonging his suffering and squirming always provided her with some measure of satisfaction.

And somehow, that one missing piece that she had found was still bothering her – the one that fit everything together. No, she had not found it. It had been given to her, and she had acted upon it like she always would: to conquer. Perhaps that realization was the thorn in her side.

Glancing out the window as Roy slowed down the car to park it in front of the Elias-Clarke building, Miranda gave him a quick glance as the burly man watched her from the rearview mirror. He nodded back, their comfortable silence one of the few things that was not replaceable in her life – money could buy many things, but loyalty such as his was hard to come by.

Loyalty was a rare luxury.

Sliding on her Prada sunglasses, she shut the door behind her and flicked the Hermès scarf around her neck as she clicked her way towards the building. The board was meeting again in the afternoon, but with sales numbers so high, that wasn’t what was already souring her day. She had to get everything done before the meeting, which she knew _she_ could, but she had serious doubts the rest of the office would be able to keep up.

Exiting the lift, Carmen was waiting for her with the diary in her hand and notes in the other, keeping up with her quick pace effortless. She updated her on all the priority tasks first with her masked Miami accent, writing down Miranda’s decisions at the same time. She would become a good copy editor after her tenure was over, and Miranda would make sure she would keep her in _Runway_ , in the Beauty Department.

Throwing the coat and bag on to Diana’s desk, she turned at the threshold of her office and addressed Carmen directly as the blonde girl scrambled to take Miranda’s possessions to the closet.

“And get me Gregory Hill right away.”

On her desk sat her scalding hot latte and her usual stack of papers and magazines, with _The Mirror_ on top. She flipped it over to the diminished section of _Life Stories_ first out of habit, before she caught herself. Pursing her lips, Miranda took her glasses and slid them on her face as she flipped the paper back to the _Letters To The Editor_. Diana spoke from the other side of the glass wall.

“I’ve got Mr. Hill.”

Without taking her eyes off the page, Miranda reached for the telephone and picked it up, holding it gently against her ear. She didn’t speak, as the voice from the other side got in first.

_“Miranda,”_ he sounded tired, but most senior staff of newsrooms often did. _“What do I owe the pleasure?”_

He also sounded very much done with the world.

Miranda didn’t have anything against him, but he would have to be removed if he was not willing to comply. She wouldn’t think twice about playing rough to get what she wanted. But, regardless of rumours, she always preferred to start out with the diplomatic path. She just never had the patience to go for a second round, should the first approach fail.

“I’m assuming you have told your staff of the change?”

_“Of course I did. It’s their lives, isn’t it? I’m not gonna dangle them into uncertainty if I can give them some answers.”_

“Anything less from you would be unexpected,” Miranda said, turning the newspaper over to get to the crosswords puzzle. “The board is meeting today at Le Bernardin for lunch. I want you to come.”

There was a long silence on the other side. He wasn’t stunned, he was thinking – he was trying to guess if this was a trap or not. But she knew he would trust his instincts more than rumours.

“Irv Ravitz will be there.”

That seemed to do the trick.

_“What time?”_

“Midday.”

_“I’ll see you then.”_

Miranda hung up and settled to finish the crosswords puzzle while waiting for Emily to bring the new layout for the new spread of April’s edition.

 

* * *

 

 

The days dragged by painfully as the move to the new office came closer. By the last week of March, _The Mirror_ staff had been reduced to its lowest number of active workers in the last ten years, although by then it was less about people getting fired and more about them moving away from a merging that didn’t look very bright for the future of the publication. Andy would agree with them, but for different reasons. Unlike the senior staff, she didn’t have the necessary background or connections to move around the inner circles of journalism. Any open roles were for upper management positions and she didn’t have the experience for them.

Which meant she had to endure, once again, employment under Elias-Clarke.

The thought that was paranoid, pushed by that unshakable annoying self-indulgent and self-pitying side of hers. When she was holding down the reigns of her logical side, she had to admit that Joel had been right. It wasn’t like she was going to work for Miranda herself – she was past the assistant phase. She was going to be working as a reporter, in a different office of a different publication with a different focus. All that they would be sharing would be the massive Elias-Clarke building, a publication house where the woman seemed to control far more than ever as of late.

The thoughts which ran through Andy’s head did not bring any comfort, but she wouldn’t run away again. Even if the strange feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach back at the launch party still lingered by.

For the last few days, her workload was not getting any easier and she hadn’t touched her blog project ever since either, leaving half-finished pieces and too many tabs left open in her browser, the background of her laptop barely visible under the digital post-it notes that had a million different ideas and topics and reminders, none of which she had had the time to investigate.

Mostly because her free time was spent trying to decompress stress between friends.

“My life has gone up in smoke and yet there’s no promotion in sight. That’s not supposed to be how it works.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s gone up in smoke. But it is ablaze with the flames of Hell.”

Andy gawked and threw a crumbled napkin at Nigel’s immaculate striped Hackett blazer, which pulled an offended noise out of him. He brushed aside non-existent specks out of the fabric.

“What ever did you think would happen as you advance in your career? That things would get easier?” Emily asked with an arched eyebrow, sipping her tea. “You should know better by now.”

“Hey, if I took anything from _Runway_ is to live on hope,” she said.

Slumping back, she lowered her shoulders and picked at the cup of her latte, her nails flicking the plastic lid back and forth. She sighed and leaned her head back, rolling it sideways to watch the people walking outside of the Starbucks they were sitting at. Nigel was saying something, probably serving some tough love with a side of airy gentleness that had become somewhat of a comfort to Andy.

They were out on one of their semi-regular occurrences, a coffee stop in-between the upgraded 30-minutes lunch break Emily had gained from her jump to Creative Director. Andy had chosen a place not too close to the Elias-Clarke building, as she didn’t want to think about the move too much. An inevitability around the newsroom from _The Mirror_ due to all the boxes and containers scattered around the place and the vans travelling back and forward, stripping the office for the upcoming vacancy.

It was all still so surreal for her. In the blink of an eye, her life had been turned inside out and upside down. It felt like she had gotten on a rollercoaster that was still going since January.

A phone on the table they were sharing buzzed and the three of them leaned to see which one had drawn the short straw. Without much surprise, Emily picked it up, scrolled through the text and sighed in the most British way Andy thought possible.

“Oh, bloody hell— I’m cutting this one short, that idiot Hayden messed up the layouts again and just got fired, so the department is a mess,” she explained as she picked up her Marc Jacobs bag. “I’ll see you later.”

Watching Emily flee in her high heels, Andy couldn’t help a small smirk form on her lips. It reminded of her coffee runs – or, well, any runs – for Miranda, crossing Manhattan one corner to the other to satisfy her whims. She had to imagine that hadn’t changed. Actually, she didn’t have to imagine. After the launch party, she was sure it was much the same.

She was brought back by Nigel clearing his throat.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, Six?”

Andy shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Nothing, I’m just tired,” and that wasn’t a lie.

“Aren’t we all?” He arched his eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, waving his hand softly towards her. Clearly, her answer didn’t suffice, and as such, he pressed on. “You’re worried about the move, aren’t you?”

There was another shrug for an answer, making Nigel tilt his New & Lingwood burgundy brogues against her knee. She glanced up at him sheepishly and shrugged again, not sure how to put her thoughts – which were too many and too jumbled – into words without sounding like the whiny Andy Sachs from 2006. She had gotten better, but every once in a while, her bouts of self-pitying even made herself cringe at. She excused them this time around only because of that reencounter.

“Okay, listen, logically, I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s a huge building and the chances of running into Miranda are pretty low, but I’m not being rational right now, alright? After the party, it felt like she was still… I don’t know, upset or something. It’s been over two years, Nigel.”

“She isn’t known to be a forgetful woman. Or one that forgives.”

“Forgives?” she nearly choked, straightening up. That was a lot of talk of forgiveness in her life as of late. Her karma couldn’t have been that bad. Sure, the habit of throwing coins into a fountain was supposed to bring good luck, or make a wish come true, but she hardly thought there was a rule about the universe biting her in the ass because she had thrown a phone in it. If anything, it was worth a whole lot more coins. “What’s there to forgive?”

“You did something,” he said, pointedly, but not unkindly. “And I’m not talking about the dramatic departure. I’m not even talking about leaving her stranded in the most important week of the whole year. It’s Miranda we’re talking about here, don’t think she wouldn’t be able to handle it. She did.” Nigel frowned, is face becoming more serious. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to lock his eyes behind his round-rimmed glasses with hers. “No, whatever you did, it was after that day. After the hotel. In the morning, there was something in her eyes. There was something off about her, and if it hadn’t been for the… Jacqueline cue, maybe I would have seen it sooner. You did something, didn’t you?”

At that moment, Andy knew he had no idea what had happened. He didn’t know about the crosswords puzzle, he didn’t know about the envelope left behind with the single word. He didn’t know anything, but he knew that there had been _some_ thing. She reached for her bangs and ran her fingers through them distractedly, pushing a long tress behind her ear as she avoided his eyes.

“You know, in the recent months, you’ve become someone I consider a good friend, Nigel,” she finally said, turning her eyes to his at last. He seemed taken aback by the intensity of them. “But you don’t get to ask that question.”

Leaning back, he was suddenly reminded how Andy “Aw-Shucks” Sachs had lasted for as long as she had. The Midwestern warmth and politeness were a weapon the woman knew all too well how to use. She wasn’t a child, she wasn’t the girl that had started out at _Runway_. She was the sole survivor of the Devil. Part of him would never not be impressed with that.

He stilled for a moment, then leaned back and smiled.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said with a soft chuckle, pulling his glasses out and wiping them on his pink pocket handkerchief. He tried to hide the thought that flashed through his mind out of nowhere, focusing on the task at hand.

It wasn’t very successful, because he could feel the reporter’s eyes burning into his skull. He pretended he didn’t, but, much like someone he knew, she wouldn’t let it go.

“What?”

He glanced up. His heart twisted in his chest and he found himself not wanting to lie to her, but not wanting to tell the truth. He supposed that hiding it away from her would not be fair either. He remembered Paris too clearly, the jab that had been the move Miranda had pulled. But he could handle it. Just like Andy had said, they all lived on hope. It was a surprisingly gentle note that always fluttered through the offices of _Runway_ , and one he hoped he could bring to _Galvanize_.

He could handle it. He had years of experience, of hardships. He also had his position cemented tightly. It wouldn’t be fair for Andy, not when she had shown her loyalty before running off to that insipid little journal. He knew that if it had been him, she wouldn’t be hesitating like he was.

“I don’t want you to think this is anything but a formality,” he started out in an even tone, but it didn’t seem to work as well as he wanted. He could see the line of her shoulders set straight and the slight jut of her jaw under her clear skin. He opened his mouth, closed it, sighed through his nose and pushed his glasses back to his face, then entertained himself in folding his pocket square. “I heard the board went for lunch today. With Miranda,” he wouldn’t look away now, not when he was about to say it. “And apparently Greg Hill was invited.”

He feared, for a moment, that Andy was going to grip the cup so hard it would squish coffee everywhere.

“Andy, listen—whatever you think is happening, please don’t overthink it. The special election is proving to be tough and there’s less than a one percent difference between the candidates at the moment. They might just be in talks to push Sean Morgan to the front page, or sell him a bit more.”

“Greg would never do that,” she glared.

“Greg will do whatever Miranda tells him to,” he said, more aggressively than intended. That seemed to strike a chord with Andy, who swallowed thickly, teeth set behind closed lips.

“She’s not doing this to get back at you,” he softened his tone, feeling a little guilty for hurting the girl. It was like kicking a puppy. Even if he was realising that this one could bite. “It’s true that there was, or is, something about you, or something you did, that stuck to her. I didn’t ask. Nobody did. But whatever you did, she is not going to destroy your career over it.”

“How do you know that?” Andy bristled, frowning so hard that a little crease between her eyebrows seemed to form right there and there.

He knew it had been a kneejerk reaction on her part, and he couldn’t blame her for it. Miranda had a reputation that was not so far from the truth. In reality, the woman was much more complex than the Terror in Heels Page Six had a fascination for, but there were parts that scratched the surface.

“Because, Andy, if she wanted to do that,” he leaned forward and placed a hand on her knee. “She already would have had.”

At that moment, another phone rang. This time, it was Andy’s. The woman whose eyes had become wider and darker glanced at it and grabbed it from the table.

“I’ve got to take this,” her voice was tight. “I’ll see you later.”

“Andy—“

But she was already grabbing her satchel and jacket, getting up in a clumsy manner. It seemed that _Runway_ hadn’t been able to wipe that less graceful stride of hers as thoughts overrode the young woman hurrying to get out.

“See you later, Nigel,” she declared in a final manner.

He turned on his seat to watch Andy answer the call as she left the Starbucks in a hurry, folding the sports jacket over her shoulder and rushing through the crowd. His eyes followed her figure until she disappeared in a sea of people. He frowned and drummed his fingers on his leg.

Nigel had always known something had happened, because the reaction that had come from a second assistant quitting had warranted was out of the ordinary. Miranda didn’t show her cards, he had seen it only a handful of times, but the morning after that day in Paris, the way she was standing in the hotel in the hotel, she seemed… _distracted_ – something that he had only seen once before.

While unimpressed in the beginning, he had slowly grown to admire Andy and her tenacity. He knew then that Miranda had seen it before anyone else, a talent that she had groomed in her own way. She had found it, the diamond in the rough, like she always did.

She had lost it, too.

He narrowed his eyes as he finished his lukewarm coffee. Then, like coming in full circle, his phone rang and he didn’t hesitate to pick up as he saw the ID of the caller.

“Hi, Miranda.”

He would not ask her.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s the best I can do, there’s just no space with the new direction.”

“Is that supposed to bring any comfort?”

“Look, I’m not here to coddle you, and I know you know this by now. I’m telling you how it is. I wasn’t talking out of my ass out there before. I’m here to protect _you_ , not them. I’m not letting you go, I’m just cutting Life Stories out of the picture.”

Andy stood in Greg Hill’s office, fuming mad. Her hands on her hips curled tight around her argyle sweater vest, so hard that her fingers dug into her hips until it hurt. The collar of the white shirt underneath was pulled apart, sleeves rolled up, and she was ready to strangle someone. One person in particular. 

“We’re already overworked as it is, cutting sections was inevitable sooner or later. Sachs, listen to me—you’re a good writer. Your articles never need a copy. But your Desk was sunk by Elias-Clarke.”

Shaking her head with an incredulous, humourless smile, she tongued the back of her teeth as she scoffed at Greg’s words. Not one hour before being called into his office, Nigel was assuring her Miranda was over it, that she had bigger fish to fry. Now, she was being told her desk was being made redundant, alongside Entertainment and Sports. The only two surviving teams were Politics and Crime – the latter being an ironic fate – and a small section of Economics.

“Sachs,” Hill said in a stern voice, arms crossed and still sitting behind his desk. “I’m sorry. I really am. But it was all I could do to save your job and Watkins’s. The whole of Events and Entertainment have been assimilated into other publications, and Sports took all my senior staff to some other daily paper. Watkins is staying on board as a cartoonist and even Dolores has taken this chance to finally hand in her resignation for a comfortable retirement plan. I just don’t have the space for a payroll in Politics at the time.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Andy asked, spreading her arms out. “Shit,” she finally said in a gasp, walking over to the window and leaning her hands on the sill. Her teeth were gritting hard enough to ground stone. Her dentist was going to have a field day.

“You take what I’m giving you,” he spoke after giving her some time to calm down. He sounded tired and disappointed, and she knew it wasn’t his entirely his fault, but part of her was hopelessly mad at all of it. “You take the Copy Editor position and you assist Mendonza and Fahim when necessary. And when the time is right, you step in.”

Andy turned around, leaning against the window with her arms crossed. She didn’t even blink as she clipped her words right next to his.

“Or step out.”

Greg snorted and leaned back on his chair, the weight of his back making it creak gently. His computer kept _bleeping_ with incoming e-mails, which he was ignoring in favour of this conversation.

“See, this is why I wanna keep you,” he gestured widely at her with his hands, smiling slightly. “C’mon, you know me. I wouldn’t bullshit you. I’m not making it any easier for myself, but I’m trying to keep you out of the gladiator arena out there.”

Andy kind of thought this was exactly like being thrown to the arena and overseen by the coldest Empress.

Regardless, she had to admit that even if the situation was less than ideal, she had bills to pay, and she did like being able to eat. Plus, she could keep close to the newspaper this way, and even maybe get some more free time for her project that had been put on hold due to the sudden influx of work.

Realising she could twist this to her advantage, Andy straighten up.

“Fine, but I get weekends off.”

“I can give you Sundays,” he said, not able to hide the proud smirk that popped as she regained her fire. He often thought she would not have that much trouble in the gladiator arena when she was like that. “And we can rotate Saturdays shifts.”

He saw it then, in her eyes. It was a sign recognizable across the whole office, the gleam that Andy Sachs got when her mind began whirling at the speed of light. People had nicknamed it The Spark.

“Dolores handed her resignation, so that means crosswords doesn’t have anyone on it,” she said, staring at him. Greg blinked in confusion but nodded. “If it survived the cut, give it to me.”

That wasn’t what he was expecting. It was true that it had been a section which had not been addressed during that fancy lunch, perhaps because nobody really did give much thought to the work that it took to build a crossword puzzle, but they had said nothing either way. If he could one-up them, then he would. Although, he thought, he would rather thread lightly around some people. He had sat next to the infamous Miranda Priestly, someone he had known from publication parties and interviews that never went through. The woman had such an aura that he thought she could kill a man with a single look – specifically a man named Irv Ravitz. Not that he would be opposed, as that was another name he knew all too well. That idiot was trying to destroy legitimate careers and real talent in favour of nepotistic indulgences or decision solely based on numbers. Greg Hill was not ignorant of the real world, but when all the decisions he had seen made were based on fictional figures and not the whole picture, he had to assume the man was an absolute idiot.

The point was, while he was surprised and he wasn’t sure what she was going to get from it, Greg had long learned to trust his instincts and his reporters, regardless of how young they were. _The Mirror_ didn’t have the best reputation or the best sales numbers. It never did. It wasn’t taken too seriously, but he still had pride in never taking a bribe. Now, with that out of his hands, and the massive change that they were about to go under, all he had left was his respect and trust in his staff.

As such, he just shrugged and made a lazy motion with his hand. “It’s all yours.”

That seemed to do the trick. Andy nodded to him and pushed off the wall, turning slightly to look at New York City below, the streets always busy with people and traffic jams, yellow cabs sprouting out of every corner.

The view from Greg’s office was nothing special, but not too far, she knew the Elias-Clarke building stretched up and up, a perfect cut block towering over the Avenue of the Americas, striking an image of modern class with bright interiors, see through tall windows.

She couldn’t see it, but she knew exactly where it was. She had spent eight months basically living in it. In less than two weeks, they would be moving to that place that had traced a definite path to her career. She would go back to where she started, but this time, she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Her glare focused on the general vicinity of the tower. Without noticing, a smile that was close to a sneer curled at the corner of her lips.

Whether it had been a deliberate move or not, she was definitely caught in the middle of a war. If the Devil in Prada thought her siege would be one of easy conquer, Andy was about to prove her very wrong without an army.

After all, she always did excel in disappointing Miranda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a surge of inspiration during my holiday, so here's an update after all!


	9. Author's Note (Not a real update)

Hey guys! Sorry for the sudden radio silence, but life got really busy and had to move houses and basically all my time alloted for writing was gone. Things are settling down, so I am hoping I am going to be able to update the story for real! I'm finally working on the next chapter. I'm a bit rusty, but let's see what I can do. At the very least, push out a draft!

Thanks for your patience, everyone I promise "Eight Across" will return soon.


	10. The 44th Floor

After both Andy and her older sister Jill had moved out of Cincinnati, their parents had decided to sell the old house to move further outside the city, to the outskirts in a quiet, verdant neighbourhood. While the house was smaller than the one Andy grew up in, there was a nicely sized yard which had sealed the deal for Joanne Sachs, who had decided she wanted to grow her own vegetables. Her first visit to the new place had happened a few years back. Andy had grown so used to New York’s noise and ever that she hadn’t known what to do with all the quietude. At the time, she was still a junior at _The Mirror_. In her rush to prove her work and worth, she had brought articles to work on, only to be strictly forbidden to touch a word on those documents when on holiday. To distract her, her father had then dragged her out to go for a walk, like they used to do on the weekends when she was younger.

After a few days, she became re-acquaintanced with having time to think without distractions of the city. The more she came back, the easier she found to slip back into the Midwestern charm of the new place. The peacefulness of her surroundings allowed her to slow down the rhythm of New York and reset – which was exactly what she needed after the recent rollercoaster of events.

With her elbows leaned on the railing of the wooden porch, Andy watched the leaves rustling under the wind as she held a cup of coffee between her hands. While April was the month of the change to the new office, she would miss the first week. Andy had decided to take it off to spent Easter with her family and given the circumstances, it was met without any complaints from Greg. In a way, she saw it as seizing control, the smallest hint of defiance. Not being there for the inauguration of the floor they would be sharing with _Inside Sports_ was like a subtle statement. Or, rather, it would be nothing but a coincidence but she knew the person it was meant for would understand.

She smiled to herself as she sipped the warm coffee, allowing a small victory to light up in her chest. It wouldn’t be much for anyone else, but it was for her.

After seeing her again, the image of Miranda and her piercing ice-blue eyes was too easy to conjure. The look she would give her far too often when she had broken (another) golden rule. It made her think back on how _that_ word had first appeared. To no surprise, it had happened because of a misstep, as it usually did. A word that had tumbled out of her mouth before she could have bitten her tongue. She recalled the way her own mouth had snapped shut, hard enough to make a crocodile jealous. Truth be told, she hadn’t meant to look at what was on Miranda’s newspaper, but her curios eyes had caught the slight crease between the editor’s eyebrows, the tip off to a mild frustration brewing. Andy had learned how to read the subtle signs and in an attempt to make everyone’s lives easier, she decided that the answer to the crossword that she was glaring at could be the solution. The glare had shifted from the paper to Andy when she had said it out loud, _dissonant._ This time, there was no trace of cerulean blue frumpy sweaters.

She was used to overstepping, but the intensity of the moment had not been lost on her. Before she pushed her luck, she had handed the file she was there to, asked if there was anything else. Grinding teeth beneath the silence Miranda stared her down with, she only stopped clenching her jaw when the familiar flicker and wave of her hand, followed by a “That’s all”, dismissed her.

The memory of that day that lingered with her the most, Andy realized as she took another sip of her coffee, had been the one made late. It had been one of the many late evenings waiting around for The Book. She had glanced over the crosswords page, which was a peculiar habit Miranda had to smooth out thoughts. Some people doodled when they were distracted. Miranda Priestly did crossword puzzles.

On eight across, the word had been written in a familiar sharp and precise calligraphy: _dissonance_.

A lack of agreement or harmony between people or things.

If she only knew how ironic that word would become, Andy would have allowed a difficult day or a bad week to happen out of Miranda’s crossword frustration. Inadvertently, it seemed that she had opened a problem for her future self.

She always did have bad luck with the lottery anyway.

From the hallway of the house, the voice of a child snapped her out of her nostalgic musings. She glanced over her shoulder to find her father and Isaac, her nephew, returned from the farmer’s market with a handful of fruit. Jill was going to bake her famous apple pie. Easter at the Sachs wasn’t a massive family gathering, but it was a good excuse for the immediate family to come together.

Pushing herself off the porch towards the house, Andy closed the door behind her as she allowed the smell of homemade cuisine envelop her like a warm hug. She smiled at Jill’s husband, who was watching the Grand Prix on TV. Kyle leaned his head back on the sofa and raised his beer to her.

“What’s up, Andy?”

“Nothing, just enjoying my last day off,” she replied, lazily sliding on the opposite end of the sofa, careful to not to spill any coffee. She glanced at the TV without any interest and then back to him. “Are you going back to Louisville today?”

“Yup,” Kyle bounced his feet lightly on his knee, leaning back against the sofa as he watched the race on the TV. His blonde hair was longer than she had seen it last on Christmas, curling stubbornly at the ends, and he was growing a bit of a beard. A patch of white broke against the darker sandy-blonde hair of the beard. “Work tomorrow. Are you flying tonight?”

“Early morning tomorrow,” Andy stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “I could do with another month of vacations.”

“Psh,” he admonished. “You? I don’t think you could sit still for that long.”

“I feel that both of you have been sitting for too long,” quipped a voice from the kitchen. “Come help with the table!”

Andy and Kyle exchanged knowing looks and got up to head to the kitchen from where the scent of a juicy roast with home-grown vegetables was waiting. Waiting with a hand on her hip and mittens in the other, Joanne Sachs shoved the two towards the cutlery, hurrying them along with the tablecloth and, for good playful measure, smacking Andy in the backside with the mittens.

She laughed and pressed a kiss to Jill’s cheek as she grabbed the cups from the cupboard. Her pregnant belly was showing well under the pink and white dotted apron. From the window, she could Richard and Isaac on the swing they had bought for the kid, and now the new incoming one.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jill said, setting the few last slices of apple in a perfect circle on the pie she was about to bake. “Where did you run off to?”

“Just getting some fresh air before I go back to New York. I have to recycle these lungs before they get polluted via city,” she said with a cheeky grin, rolling her eyes towards their mom with pointed and knowing humour.

Joanne huffed and puffed behind them.

“That and the fact you keep on coming back thin as a rail are reasons enough for me to worry, Andy!”

She shooed her towards the dining room with her dishcloth and Andy couldn’t help but to smirk at the thought that the new workplace would disagree with that assessment of thinness. “Really, with all the changes your job is going under, why don’t you consider moving back home?”

The opportunities New York offered were far and above from those any place in the whole of Ohio could, but Andy just shrugged sheepishly instead and grinned, setting the cups on the table. Kyle, who kept being distracted by stealing quick glances to the TV, didn’t realize she left him to finish up.

It wasn’t the first time Andy knew better than to say anything to their parents. She had omitted from them the fact that the new publication house she was going to be working under was Elias-Clarke. Back when she worked for _Runway_ , her father had not liked what he had seen when he first visited her, and they had been all too happy when she had moved out and into _The Mirror_. She was not touching that subject during her holiday. She already had too much in her head to give way to conversations she would rather avoid.

“If I get a house here, I won’t be needing to come to your house for fresh air and then we will never see each other,” she tried instead, sighing overly dramatic.

Her mother wagged her finger, “Don’t you sass me!”

Laughing all the way back to the kitchen, Andy helped out Jill with the last few apples. With their mother out of earshot, the older of the Sachs’s sister bumped her hip lightly on Andy’s. The knowing look she gave her, eyebrows arched and very much resembling their father kind prompting to talk expression, made the younger of the two curl her nose.

“Oh, stop it. You know if I tell her anything she will freak out.”

“Probably, but you should still tell them.”

“I will tell them,” Andy protested as she helped cutting the rest of the apples while Jill spread the pastry. “I just don’t want to say anything until I’ve been there for a while. It’s a non-issue. ”

Jill sighed with a lopsided smile, the one that told they were sisters, and bumped their hips again. “You can’t blame your older sister for worrying about you.”

“I know, but I know what I’m doing. It’s not like I’m back at _Runway_ , it’s just the same building. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Andy arched her eyebrows, feeling a bit of pride. She had even sealed the deal with free Sundays. No need for panic.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a small amount of panic as she took a taxi from Newark Liberty International Airport down to Sixth Avenue on Monday.

Much to her chagrin, Andy found that her stomach was tumbling around the closer the yellow car got to the Elias-Clarke tower. She could have blamed it on the dull coffee of airport-quality or the lack of breakfast, but she knew that it was a lie. Pinching the bridge of her nose tightly, she watched the cars go by and tried to clear her mind.

It was an eerie familiarity that overcame as she recognized the streets she used to take all those years back when she was working for _Runway_. It was silly to think of it – like she had told Jill, there was no bogeyman story in this scenario. It was just the same very tall, very big building where thousands of people worked every day. She was still working for _The Mirror_. Greg Hill was still her boss. And, most of all, she was still the same woman that had faced against the dragon and survived.

The taxi stopped abruptly, shaking Andy back to reality. She slapped a hand against the seat in front of her and blinked in surprise, looking outside the taxi’s window. Crazy New York traffic, she thought as she glanced over to the taxi driver gesticulating angrily at the car that had cut him off.

“These people! No respect!” He turned around to Andy, frowning in concern. “You okay, miss?”

But he didn’t wait for a reply, honking the horn as aggressively as Andy imagined a horn could sound like and leaned out the window to shout some more. Yes, she was definitely back in New York. It was way too apparent she was, because when the taxi pulled over by Elias-Clarke tower, just behind the car that had cut them off. He barely waited for Andy to pay him to get out of the car and stomp over to knock on the driver’s window aggressively. Wincing at the possible incoming scene, Andy darted to get the bag out of the trunk of the car. When she slammed it shut, her stomach sank.

Out from the car emerged the white-haired Devil herself. Draped in a Spring Yves Saint Laurent pale dress, Prada sunglasses and black heels, Comparatively, Andy looked exactly like you would expect someone to look like after coming out of a busy airport from a way too early morning flight. Where Miranda didn’t have a hair out of place, Andy’s hair was messy from an uncomfortable sleep on an aisle seat.

Most often, Miranda was very good at ignoring people around her. She seldom spared second looks to passer-by’s. But somehow, Andy did not escape the woman’s gaze. Frowning back at her, Andy decided to make her words true. There was no reason to panic, her turning stomach be damned. Scrunching up her nose, straightening her back, and picking the luggage up, she aggressively pulled up the bag’s handle and tilted her chin up.

“Miranda.”

It was barely a greeting at all, but playing with fire was not that new to her. She couldn’t see the eyes behind her sunglasses, but Andy had spent too many months reading all the subtle signs. The Devil could be a mystery to many people, but she had damned herself in allowing Andy Sachs to observe her so closely. The tiny, imperceptible flare of her nostrils and the millisecond-long curling of her upper lip were caught right away. But so was the way her shoulders were set dangerously.

Miranda might not have spoken a word, but Andy didn’t need it. In fact, as the older woman turned and headed towards the Elias-Clarke, barely acknowledging her told her more than she needed. She had been right, after all. She wasn’t going to work for her, much less with her, and that should bring comfort. She found that there was a slight hint of disappointment, watching her clack away in a regal-like fashion up the marble steps. The heels clicked through the traffic of New York, and the taxi driver’s shouting at the clearly unimpressed Roy driving away the Mercedes-Benz. Andy was never one to back away from a challenge, and it felt like this was one being taken away from her. Maybe it was her hubris or her stubbornness. Maybe it was both, or nothing at all.

Groaning to herself, Andy waited until Miranda disappeared behind dodging Elias-Clarke employees and beyond the doors of the building (but not the revolving ones, she remembered her disliking them because they were “too slow”, and having to wait for a door cycle was, of course, beneath her). Dragging the luggage behind her, Andy stepped inside the building she thought she would never again see, unsurprised by the unchanged entrance. Underneath the golden _ELIAS-CLARKE PUBLICATIONS_ sign, now sat a small, brand new acrylic which spelled out _THE MIRROR_.

Not having the Elias-Clarke FOB on her wasn’t a problem, as one of the security guards recognized her and that was an odd thing to add on top of all of what was going on, but then again, maybe it wasn’t so odd that one of the guards that she would say good morning and good evening to every day for so many months would recognize her.

The office space was much bigger than the old publication, airy and with clean desks without any piles of too many documents and old clippings – for now, she would bet. In her experience, no place survived the disorganization of a hectic journalist.

Hip and very much the definition of a millennial space, there were no cubicles, no cramped, dark spaces. The coffee area wasn’t mouldy and too small for barely two people, instead a long counter by a tall window. There was fresh fruit on display and colour-coded drawers, which was already a big difference from the _Runway_ offices. Food on display would be silly. The common area was shared with _Sports Insider_. She found Joel half asleep, stirring a knife into his coffee mug. Clearly still working like a dog, he barely opened his eyes to grunt a distant “hello” as Andy waved from where she stood. Her desk sat in a nice corner where she could see through the window the bustling New York City. The area wasn’t fashionable like the offices that she used to work in the upper floors, if she could recall, but she couldn’t think to complain about it.

Setting down her luggage, Andy glanced over to the monitor to find it filled with multiple little post-it notes with different handwriting but all she could recognize: Greg, Malika, Joel, Liam. Joel’s were just counting of the days and complaints, however, and she couldn’t help the smile that crept over on her face. It had been indeed silly of everyone to worry about this move. Everything was fine. She only had to remind her stomach of that. It was still tumbling from a morning encounter that, she told herself, would not be repeated. She could just take a different rout.

Behind a scratchy looking pink post it from Malika asking her to help her with a lot of research, there was a note in a very clean, round handwriting that she did not recognize. Pulling it out between her fingers, she read the note telling her to pick up her new FOB from the upper floor as soon as she arrived, as _The Mirror_ didn’t have an office admin yet. She wondered why not use the _Sports Insider_ one, but looking across to the common area filled with “bro-dudes”, she supposed whoever the admin was, they already had their hands full.

“Ah, there you are, Sachs,” called out a familiar voice. Turning around, Malika was waving at her with a very thick bundle of notes. “How was home? Good? Yeah, great, listen we have all of this to fact and copy check,” the woman had not lost the touch of speaking faster than a bullet, not waiting for Andy to get a word in. By now, she was used to it and couldn’t help but to sigh, smile, and hold her hand out for the notes, promptly receiving them.

“We need the first three articles by end of day, and your inbox is probably bursting at the seams, so ignore all e-mails unless they come from me,” Malika said with a wink, before clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Good to have you back, Sparky.”

“Sure is good to be back,” Andy laughed in a mock-panic as the pile of paper stared her defiantly. “End of day. Got it.”

After staying at her parents, it was scarily easy for her to settle back to work, to the crazy rhythm of New York. If she would allow herself to admit it, it was how she felt better. While the break had been nice, the way she worked and overworked was something she had found that she was far too comfortable with. If she was to assign blame for that skewed habit, she would have to once more recall her time working for _Runway_. When she left, it was like the rest of the world slowed down. She kept taking more and more work at _The Mirror_ because she had found that the challenge of the close deadlines and toe-curling edge of stress spurred her to do better, faster. In a way, it had helped her skyrocket.

Settling back in the familiar rush of her job, Andy began to take in her new responsibilities with the copy-editing, going through e-mails and researching through archives for crosswords, aided by the many tips Dolores had left behind for her in a hardcover floral-printed notebook.

By the time she decided to look at the clock, it was almost seven in the evening. Blinking in surprise, Andy tilted her head up, pulling a headphone out of her ear to check the office. Only a couple other people from the other magazine seemed to be in that floor, along with the cleaners. She winced at herself. Settling back in the new rhythm had gone a bit overboard.

Closing her laptop, Andy looked over at the note she had re-attached: _PICK UP FOB FROM 44 TH FLOOR._

How she hadn’t noticed the floor before was beyond her. Sighing and staring at the ceiling, she silently cursed the universe that was trying to make everything as ironic as possible.

Of course it had to be the _Runway_ floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller chapter just to get the rust out of these joints.


End file.
